Saga of the Dragonborn
by His Lordship Havoc
Summary: The man who would become known as the Dragonborn must fight to save a world gone mad. With a civil war raging around him in Skyrim, the brutal shadow war against the Thalmor and the return of a dragon that seeks to destroy all of Nirn, can even the legendary Dovakhiin forge his destiny and save all of Tamriel? Rated M for violence.
1. Chapter 1

** Saga of the Dragonborn**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or any of the content created by Bethesda, its subsidiaries or any other entity involved in the creation and distribution of this game. Any additional characters created by me were for expansion of the storyline within the context of this fanfic. Ask me if you want to know which ones they are. Reviews are welcome, flames will be laughed at. Enjoy!

**Prologue**

Ragnar crept through the night, his war-axe in one hand and sturdy shield in the other. Behind him followed twenty young warriors, all eager to prove their mettle to Galmar Stone-Fist and to Ulfric Stormcloak, who would soon be the true High King of Skyrim. The Empire, for so long the ally and great protector of its various citizens, had grown weak and contemptible, virtually overthrown by the Aldmeri Dominion. Ulfric had slain Torryg, the supposed High King in a display of Skyrim's unwillingness to accept the rule of the Thalmor. The civil war that erupted would determine the course of Skyrim's destiny.

"Careful now, all of you..." Ragnar whispered as they approached the location indicated on the map given to him by Galmar, Ulfric's most trusted advisor and general. "You can make fun of the Imperials all you want, but when it comes to fighting them, it will not be the romp you make it out to be. They are disciplined and determined. Be wary."

"You seem to know a lot about them," hissed one young warrior from behind him. "Is it just admiration for their skill in battle I hear, Thunderfist, or is it perhaps more sympathetic than that?"

Before anyone could reply, Ragnar had quickly and quietly turned around and was now confronting the young warrior who had impugned him. His considerable bulk pushed aside others who had followed him and he glared fiercely, his ice-blue eyes flashing in the moonlight.

"If you have something to say, Hrolf, say it with your weapon," he growled as loudly as he dared, given their proximity to the enemy camp. "Knowing your enemy is not sympathy for them, fool, and we seek to teach the Empire a lesson, not destroy it. If you are disputing my leadership of this mission, we can find a clearing nearby to test your resolve in."

Hrolf went pale, clearly intimidated by Ragnar's size and the deadly intent he could see in the man's expression. He had never believed the whole 'Dragonborn' rumour about him, but looking into those eyes, he had to admit there was something... inhuman, that he could not account for, a savagery that no Nord he had ever known could match.

He wilted and looked away.

"Now then, if you lot are ready to move on..." Ragnar declared with a scowl at the rest of them. He moved back to the front of the little troop of Stormcloaks and resumed their course through the darkness. The moons shone overhead and he was careful to use any and all available cover to make sure they were not detected as they approached the Imperial camp.

"How much farther, _byothr_?" asked Framr, another young man who had come on this, his first real engagement with the Imperials. He had been on a farm outside Rorikstead and his father, who was an old veteran but lame, had encouraged him to join the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim. He had, somehow, managed to pass Galmar's test against the Ice Wraiths and now stood in Ragnar's company, eager to prove his worth.

"Not much longer, just a few furlongs until we reach their perimeter." Ragnar replied, imagining the map he had been given. The Imperials were camped in the rugged foothills and mountains between Whiterun and Dawnstar, using the position to strike north into the Pale, disrupting communications and supplies between Winterhold, Eastmarch and the lands of Jarl Skald, who had thrown in his lot with Ulfric.

The war band crept forward, approaching from the east through the low, rolling hills. If Galmar's scouts were right, the enemy camp contained as many as sixty soldiers and camp retainers. Those were three-to-one odds and he was not taking any chances with his troops. Even if they won, he had no intention of losing men they would need for future battles.

He held up his hand, indicating their should stop. He then motioned for Eilif to come forward with him, moving closer to their target. Taking advantage of the rocky terrain, they skulked between the jagged formations, avoiding the light of the twin moons. Stendarr's Sorrow had a reddish tint that heralded a night of blood. He smiled to himself in anticipation.

They approached a clearing on the side of a hill and hid themselves behind a large boulder. Eilif remained still while Ragnar looked around the rock, peering warily. Not far ahead, a lone Imperial soldier was standing idly, staring at the sky. His keen blade was sheathed and his shield dangled on his arm. He was muttering to himself about the cold and how much he missed Cyrodiil.

Ragnar drew his dagger from his belt and crept forward silently, coming up behind his unsuspecting victim. The keen blade seemed to almost pulse in his hand, thirsty for blood. Taken from an assassin who had been sent to kill him and suffered that exact fate, he had kept it on his person ever since, as a precaution. He did not trust the weapon, sensing it would happily take his life in favour of anyone else's.

He darted in and used his terrifying strength to wrench his victim's neck back and then calmly drew the blade across it. The Imperial shuddered and went limp as his warm blood coursed over Ragnar's steel gauntlet. He kept the man from collapsing as he died and quickly dragged the body back behind the rock where Eilif waited.

"That's one..." said the young Stormcloak.

"Aye, and fifty-nine to go," Ragnar muttered, wishing it were darker out. The moons were bright and there was little chance of his war band approaching the camp unnoticed. He might have to resort to more particular methods. "We are not close enough to risk a pitched battle yet, for they could still call reinforcements if we do not gain surprise."

"Galmar Stone-Fist would probably just charge in at this point, would he not?" Eilif suggested. He was impressionable and rather intimidated by the gruff old warrior.

"Mayhap, but we have other advantages that he would not in this case," Ragnar replied, searching the body of the Imperial for anything useful. "Give these arrows to Fjalar and have everyone meet me up the hill behind that outcropping."

Eilif nodded and scurried back, staying low. Ragnar waited patiently for his comrade to disappear. What he had to do next could have unforeseen consequences if he was not careful. He examined his knife for a few moments, noticing that the blood had all but disappeared. He had never really stopped and dared to consider how the Daedric weapon consumed the vitae of its prey, but there was no denying its effectiveness. The black teeth gleamed and the ancient, hateful runes of the forbidden Daedric tongue glimmered menacingly. He understood that somehow the heart or essence of some being from the plane of Oblivion was bound into this weapon and it howled in outrage at its enforced captivity, forever to serve he who wielded the knife and ever aching for vengeance.

It must have served the Dark Brotherhood well.

But it was his now and he would use it to slay his enemies, swiftly and silently, like a shadow wolf. Whoever had sent the Dark Brotherhood against him would pay one day, but this was not the time. He sheathed the dagger and once again gripped the well-worn and comforting haft of his ancient axe, forged long ago by his ancestors when they had first come from fabled Atmora, alongside Ysgramor.

He thought of his arduous childhood, often spent on the run with his parents, pursued by the Imperials and the damned Thalmor, moving across Tamriel, eking out such a living as they could. Through all the hardship, Ragnar grew tall and strong, even by the standards of his Nord people. He was powerfully built but whipcord-fast and savage in combat. He was shrewd and knew how to seek tactical advantage over his foes.

From his mother, who had known the touch of Aetherius, he learned subtle tricks of the mind and how to bend thought and form to his will. He led the life of a thief when necessary, learning the arts of stealth and trickery as a child. He could cut a purse string from a wealthy man in broad daylight, or so his friends had told him when they had been moving through Hammerfell.

But then he had heard of Ulfric Stormcloak's rebellion against the Empire and the Thalmor, leading Skyrim to reclaim its birthright and freedom to worship Talos. With his mother's blessing he had left her in the care of the Khajiit caravans and struck out north, making his way across the eastern edge of the imperial province near the dark and forbidding mountains of Morrowind. He tried to enter Skyrim through the mountain passes around Helgen but was caught in an ambush meant for Ulfric Stormcloak.

Against all odds and because of the unlooked-for intervention of Alduin the Destroyer, he had escaped and fled into Skyrim. He could not have imagined how his own fate was intertwined with that of the terrible black dragon that had attacked Helgen that day, but it had become apparent that some cosmic or celestial mechanism more subtle than a Dwemer machine was at work.

He had come finally to Whiterun, where he found fellowship with the Companions, the heirs of Ysgramor's followers who established the first human kingdom in Tamriel. In feasting and fighting, he gained their acceptance, becoming mighty among them. When old Kodlak Whitemane died, he had named Ragnar his successor as Harbinger. The honour had been unexpected, but no one could deny the appeal of it, for he looked and fought like a warrior of the songs and sagas, likened to Shor, Stendarr and even mighty Tsuun.

Though he had come to Whiterun and managed to keep his identity a secret for some time, eventually he became embroiled in an attack on the hold by a dragon. He had slain the mighty beast and everyone present watched in astonishment as he took its very soul into himself. He was the _Dragonborn_ of legend.

The rumour spread quickly, though few could understand or believe it. As edifying as he might have found such controversy, he did not want the attention at this point, for he had been made a _thegn_ by Jarl Balgruf for his services and this would certainly attract the attention of the Thalmor. He sought the advice of the legendary Greybeards, who lived in their monastery atop the highest mountain in Tamriel, to learn what it meant to be Dragonborn. They taught him of his nature and his purpose, like those of the dragon blood who had come before him.

But the Greybeards were men of peace and inner reflection, refusing to ever turn their craft to war, no matter how dire the threat posed to Skyrim. He left High Hrothgar and headed to the relative anonymity of Riften, taking his new wife Camilla Valerius of Riverwood with him.

It was not long before his skills in subterfuge found use with the Thieves Guild. Though new to them, he had quickly risen in reputation amongst the members, even helping to expose and slay their former leader, Mercer Frey. He was rewarded by Nocturnal, the goddess of night, with the title of Nightingale, one of her trusted guardians and a driving force behind the Thieves Guild. Though he had little interest in continuing his nefarious activities in Riften, he found the connections useful and he had made a substantial amount of coin in the process.

Riften was dangerous in its own way, not least because of the absolute power wielded by the ruthless and patrician Maven Black-Briar, matron of the wealthiest and most influential family in the Rift. Though she was one of the people who backed the Thieves Guild, Ragnar did not trust her. He became acquainted with and a trusted companion of Maven's daughter Ingun, a young alchemist of considerable talent. The strange but naïve girl kept him informed of her mother's business and he felt safer for it. In a secret ceremony known only to Ingun, Camilla, Priest Malmar of Mara and himself, he took the Black-Briar daughter to wife.

He could not avoid notoriety forever, though, and was declared _thegn_ of the Rift after his part in the final obliteration of a skooma ring that had plagued the land for years. Though the Thieves Guild and his fellow Nightingales did what they could to protect him, it was not long before the Thalmor heard rumours of the Dragonborn living in Riften. He bid his wives farewell and fled north to Winterhold, where he joined the Mage's College, hoping for anonymity.

In _Sutborg_ he had honed the magical skills passed on to him by his mother, surpassing almost all others in his mastery of the arcane. He learned how to enchant, to imbue his will and other forces into things and gained a reputation as a mage of great skill. He visited Saarthal, once of the most ancient steadings of the men of old, destroyed by the Snow Elves before Ysgramor prosecuted his war of vengeance upon them for their treachery. He learned of the mysterious Dwemer, the fearful Draugr and the vile Falmer, becoming privvy to secrets long since forgotten by the Nord race.

Most of all, though, he came to understand the ties between the magic of Aetherius and the shouts of Dragonkind, of which he alone in this world could have true mastery. It was not the relationship itself between magic and the _Th'uum _ that worried him, but the realization that dragons, the first children of Akatosh, were inherently magical and far greater threats to the world that anyone had ever guessed.

Except maybe Delphine.

Leader of the Blades, a near-extinct group of mythical dragon-slayers, she had met him while he had been questing to find the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the mighty Atmoran warrior-sage who had formed the Greybeards. Delphine had helped him to understand the history of the Dragonborn and how it was he who represented Tamriel's only hope of defeating Alduin and staying the destruction of all Nirn.

Together they had found the ancient Akaviiri temple called Sky Haven and within lay legendary Alduin's Wall, which explained how his forebears had defeated Alduin in an age long forgotten. This place had been their only hope, their only chance of unraveling the riddle of defeating the World-Eater.

He knew now that his purpose, but this could not be readily accomplished when Skyrim was in turmoil. Strong arms and keen blades were needed to help deal not just with the overbearing Empire, but the true power behind the Imperial throne, the Thalmor. He had lived his whole life on the run from agents of the emperor, yet he knew that he bore his fellow man no ill will. They were weak and needed guidance. If Skyrim were to throw off the shackles of Imperial dominion in order to show men the way, then so be it. Humanity would rally behind the Nords and defeat the Aldmeri, forever free of their bondage.

Here he was now, kneeling in the dark, his hand on his weapon, contemplating the death of Imperial Legion soldiers. Many of these men would be Nords, since Skyrim itself was divided in its loyalty. Skyrim had always been a part of the Empire, a solid and hardy bastion of fearless warriors who would face any foe with unflinching courage. Perhaps their loyalty was understandable, but he found it to be misguided. The Nords needed to break free so that they could lead the fight against the true enemy.

He drove all kindness and mercy from his heart. He had sworn loyalty to the Stormcloaks for in them he saw the best chance to revive Skyrim and bring about a new era, even if he did not entirely trust Ulfric. Battle awaited him and he would not fail in his duty. He crept quickly and quietly through the crags, arriving at the point where he had instructed his men to join him. Not far away, he could make out a detail of guards, talking casually and clearly expecting no trouble.

He felt the presence of his war band behind him nodded for them to wait on his order. They held back patiently, waiting to see what their commander would do. He calmed his spirit and remembered the words of Arngeir, most senior of the Greybeards.

"_Breath and focus..."_

Ragnar took a deep, cleansing breath, letting the alien yet completely natural words of the _Dov_ race, the dragons, come to him and guide his actions. He sought out his enemies in the darkness as he expelled the roiling air from his lungs.

"_**Las yah nir...**__"_

The world about him all but faded away, leaving only the life energies of every being in the region visible. He opened his eyes, which burned with dragon-sight. Several of his men shivered in discomfort at the sound, though it had been only a whisper. They could never understand, nor should they want to, for only a _Dov_ could truly comprehend how to weave and unravel the veil and fabric of reality.

There was the camp. The tents were set up in small groups and the Imperial soldiers within seemed at ease. Ragnar's eyes narrowed as he used a series of hand gestures to break his men off into detachments of five and send them to their assigned targets. They would hit the enemy squads all at once, making sure that none would be reinforced.

His men loped off and he nodded to himself, having picked his prey. The commander's tent and command squad were located near the center of the camp. He would wait until exactly the right moment to make his move. His Stormcloak soldiers moved swiftly through the night, showing remarkable discipline in their pacing. The Imperials thought the Stormcloak rebellion a haphazard and ill-bred affair, fought by ignorant farmers, silver miners and drunkards who knew nothing of how the world worked. They thought these peasants would give up when things did not go their way.

Ragnar would prove them wrong.

The Imperials were enjoying their evening meal, chatting and telling tales of past battles, how the Stormcloaks were no match for them and that the inbred rabble would soon be slinking home to their farms in shame. One man pulled out a crude lute and began singing an off-key rendition of 'The Age of Aggression', always a favourite of the Legion.

Their laughter turned to shouts of surprise and panic when the Stormcloak warriors fell on them like wolves seeming to appear out of nowhere. Several men had died before the rest could even draw their weapons and prepare to defend themselves. The Stormcloaks bellowed and howled in fury, striking down their foes savagely. The melee whirled around the camp while the commander stood hastily from his meal and began giving orders. No green lieutenant was he, but a seasoned veteran of many campaigns across Tamriel. He had even fought in the Great War and been present at the siege of the Imperial City. He called out his orders with authority and his best warriors immediately took up their sturdy shields and keen swords, forming a line and charging into the enemy.

Once their momentum had subsided, the Stormcloaks found that their preference for two-handed weapons was beginning to work against them. Shields shoved them backwards while the lighter, quicker weapons of their opponents found gaps in their armour and they started to fall. Mimr went down with a deep sword wound in his chest while Hrolf tumbled backwards, dark blood gushing from the ragged tear in his throat.

The Imperial commander had ordered his men to form their defensive lines and fight as tight, cohesive units, their shields protecting one another from the worst of the enemy's blows. It was not long before their superior numbers would begin to show a difference, even if the enemy had surprise. The exceptional training and discipline of his Legionnaires would carry the day. This would be yet another victory under his belt against these damned Stormcloaks.

"_**WULD NA KEST!"**_

The sound was like thunder and the very ground shook as the words assaulted his ears. Out of nowhere, came a huge warrior like a thunderbolt, moving at a speed no strength or even science could account for. He hit the veteran warrior line like a hurricane, blasting it apart as he moved through it. So great was the force of his passing that he dragged men back with him, as if they were sucked into a whirlwind. They tumbled and bounced, their bodies cracking, breaking and contorting at odd angles as they were carried along in his wake.

The commander was thrown from his feet, stunned by the sheer magnitude of sound. Before him stood the terrifying Nord warrior, his ice-blue eyes piercing the night while his long, blond hair sprang from beneath his horned helmet like a wild horse's mane. His steel armour was covered in ornate runes and glyphs, his sturdy shield decorated with countless battle scars. In his hand was an axe of ancient design, a proud weapon of distinct lineage.

It could only have been the work of the fabled Skyforge. Never had the commander seen anything of such barbaric splendour before. In spite of his shock, his heart thundered with admiration.

One of his remaining veterans attacked the new foe, leaping in to defend his commander, but the huge barbarian warrior struck him down almost contemptuously, not even deigning to look at the man as he did so. His venerable axe simply flashed out and bifurcated him so that the hapless Legionnaire fell to the ground in two separate places. Wide-eyed, the commander stared in horror. Several moments passed before he realized that his entire contingent was destroyed. Only he yet lived, and probably not for long.

The massive Nord now gazed down at him, his unreal blue eyes harder than the giant icebergs that floated in the northern seas. He pointed down at the commander with his axe, his voice deep and sonorous as he spoke.

"See now, Imperial, that the Stormcloak rebellion is no mere petty uprising," Ragnar boomed, his voice still flush with the power of the _Dov_ and the ground seeming to tremble in response. "You have betrayed Skyrim by submitting to the Aldmeri. Your courage is found wanting and we Nords will have no truck with an Empire that will not stand alongside us and die with us for the cause of freedom."

The commander's face coloured angrily as he replied. "You damnable fools!" he spat. "There is no honour in destroying us all to spite the elves! No one _wants_ to live under their thumb but to die at their hands is pointless! You Nords will get us all killed! Even if you somehow win your independence from the Empire, it is not just you the Thalmor will punish, it is all of Tamriel. Your selfish rebellion will be the end of the people that your ancestor Ysgramor brought here in the most ancient of days!"

Several Stormcloaks laughed. "Beware, my brothers!" called out Gunnar, squatting down to look into the commander's face. "For we have here not only a warrior but a scholar, a man of letters and books! Hopefully his daughter will remember some of these lovely stories he taught her when I take her to bed!"

"Enough!" Ragnar said loudly, the ground shaking obediently at the sound of his voice. "Tend to our wounded and make sure that any enemy yet living are dealt with quickly and painlessly. I would not torture these men for fighting for their beliefs. Let them die with honour, as you would want to."

Knowing better than to contest their commander's will, the Stormcloaks set about the business of securing the camp and dealing with those yet living, the euphoria of having survived the battle now past. Ragnar regarded the Imperial commander flatly for several seconds.

"If you intend to kill me, at least allow me to stand and die with a weapon in my hand," the commander said levelly, no fear in his voice. "I am no match for you, I merely ask the courtesy."

"Get up," Ragnar said finally, his decision made. "I will not kill you. You will serve me better by being allowed to return to Solitude, to tell your beloved General Tullius that he has more than he bargained for in contesting our little rebellion. The Nords will never accept Aldmeri rule and we will face them alone if the Empire feels it is not up to the task."

The commander stood unsteadily and stared at his triumphant foe in wonder.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Ragnar Thunderfist," replied the mighty warrior. "And I am the Dragonborn."

"Dragon..." whispered the commander, his eyes distant. "Do... do we live in the books of legend? Do you claim to be Tiber Septim reborn?"

"Speak no such nonsense!" Ragnar snapped, beckoning several of his men over. "Bring me a horse and tie him to it securely. The commander has a long ride ahead of him."

Somewhat unsure of what their commander was doing but unwilling to disobey, the Stormcloaks brought a horse and put the imperial commander in the saddle, fastening him to it. Ragnar then leaned in and spoke several incomprehensible words to the beast before giving it a slap on the ramp. The steed neighed and galloped off through the night, heading west.

"What... what if he merely heads to Whiterun?" asked Framr as he watched the commander disappear. "He could easily raise the alarm against us and see that we are ambushed on the way back to Kynesgrove."

"The horse knows where to go," Ragnar said simply, casting his gaze around and assessing the camp. Four Stormcloaks were dead and another six were wounded but seemed able to continue on. "It will take him to Solitude and he will give my message to General Tullius."

"So now you speak to animals?" called out one young warrior in exasperation. Clearly his blood was still hot within him from the battle and his anxiety craved release. "What mythic nonsense is this, Ragnar Thunderfist? Are you a warrior of the Stormcloaks or a priestess of Kynareth?"

Ragnar saw no point in striking the fool down for his insolence, so he ignored the jibe. He had other matters to attend to. He closed his eyes and listened, stilling his soul and letting it sing within the bones of the earth, feeling the flow of energies as they coursed through him.

He felt, rather than heard, a roar of hate.

"Shearpoint," he muttered to himself. "Listen to me, all of you!" Ragnar said loudly, gathering his warriors to him. "This battle is won but now we must get you back to Windhelm, to report to General Galmar. The original plan after we destroyed this forward camp was to head north through the mountains and then due east, but you can no longer make it safely by Shearpoint Mountain."

"Why not?" challenged the warrior from earlier. "More warrior-scholars await us?"

"No, fool, a dragon does," Ragnar replied. "A dragon has roosted on the peak of the mountain. If you attempt to pass beneath him, he will see you and eat you before you knew you were doomed. No, you will need to move directly east from here at speed, skirting the hold of Whiterun. Move along the north bank of the river until you pass Valtheim Towers. Battle the bandits there or bribe them for passage, whichever you prefer, but get thee hence to Windhelm after that. It should take you no longer than three days, once you are past Gallows Rock, if you keep the lead out of your asses."

"How do you know a dragon occupies Shearpoint?" demanded the Stormcloak.

Ragnar had had enough. His fist last out and cracked across the boy's jaw, dislocating it and knocking him out cold. The snow steamed with the warm blood.

"Now you have to carry Hengist back," he growled, throwing a challenging glare at his remaining warriors. "Anybody else stupid enough to cause further delay?"

Everyone shook their head.

"Head back to Windhelm and report our victory," Ragnar reiterated. "Give my regards to Galmar and Jarl Ulfric."

"But... where are you going?" Eilif asked, somewhat confused. "Are you not coming back with us?"

"No, I must go somewhere else," Ragnar said darkly, knowing what awaited him. "You will need to press on without me."

"Where, then are you going?" Eilif pressed, watching as Ragnar strode away.

"To my home," Ragnar declared, walking into the western night. "I must go to Sky Haven Temple..."

**Author's Notes: **Someone challenged me to take on Skyrim, something I had previously promised myself I would not do. But a challenge is a challenge, so here we are. Rather than begin wayyyy back at the start of the story, I thought I'd pick up somewhere closer to the middle. Alduin's Wall has been discovered, our protagonist is the Thane of Whiterun and Riften and Harbinger of the Companions.

I am not going to make him leader of the Thieves' Guild nor the Arch Mage of Winterhold, not because he is not good enough at subterfuge or magic to hold these illustrious offices, but because he will be plenty busy as is without them. From a fictional point of view it also makes more sense to treat them as resources he can call upon rather than as additional jobs. I'll hopefully be able to work this all in seamlessly, so bear with me.

Yes, the hero is engaging in polygyny. The game has no such option (then again, the game doesn't let you remarry, either), but since the Nords are based on pagan Viking culture and pre-Christian Vikings were polygamous if they could afford it, I've made an allowance for this. No, this is not some deep need from studly gratification on my part, sayin' all dem bitches want summa dis, but allows me to work some details out and make sense of where I'll be going with this. Do not mistake this polygyny for misogyny. You've been warned.

The hero's name is Ragnar Thunderfist. This bears an unfortunate familiarity for anyone who plays Warhammer 40k. It is, in fact, coincidental. I had a childhood friend named Ragnar and it is my favourite Nordic name. Thunderfist just sounds cool and featured into a story I once wrote as a child. So please excuse any similarities, they are unintentional. You've been warned.

I've no particular intention of sticking strictly to the storyline as laid out by Bethesda in the game, so quite a bit of what happens might coincide with what we've all played but falls outside the boundaries that were given. Expanding upon the nature and use of the _Th'uum_ will be a big one. I want shouts, even relatively ephemeral or mundane ones, to be devastating if used in a cavalier manner. Remember how the world shook when the Greybeards called the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar? That's what they should be like all the time, except for Aura Whisper, Throw Voice and maybe Kyne's Peace. I want Unrelenting Force to shatter windows, knock down walls and pummel mountains. Those caught in the jetstream of Whirlwind Sprint should be broken by the sheer power of the winds created. Marked for Death should have a terrible and agonizing physical effect on the body, as well as the soul. They're the shouts of dragons, the eldest children of the greatest of the gods. The world is not meant to easily withstand them. When Ragnar used Wuld Na Kest in the battle scene above, they could hear it echoing in the city of Whiterun, even though the fight took place in the hills between Whiterun and Dawnstar, far to the north. That is the power of the Dragonborn.

I hope you enjoy this little romp. It will be expanded upon to a predetermined ending I already have mapped out. I have several other fics on the go, including a Warhammer 40k/Deep Space 9 crossover, a fic based on the game WET and my long-running Dynasty Warriors story, The Young Conqueror and a spin-off of it. Feel free to leave reviews and critiques, just no trolling. You've seen what happens to trolls in this game.

Keep your stick on the ice!

- Management


	2. Chapter 2

**Saga of the Dragonborn**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim or any of the content created by Bethesda, its subsidiaries or any other entity involved in the creation and distribution of this game. Any additional characters created by me were for expansion of the storyline within the context of this fanfic. Ask me if you want to know which ones they are. Reviews are welcome, flames will be laughed at. Enjoy!

* * *

** Chapter I**

Ragnar felt the sweat trickling on his brow as he whirled about; his keen axe flashing through the air. His muscles bulged and rippled beneath his skin, his heart hammering in his chest from the exertions. He blocked and slashed, bashed and chopped, the air of the cavernous room echoing as he practiced the complex form.

Unlike most Nords, he did not simply rely on his prodigious strength, his savagery or basic training, he had been instructed as a young boy in the ways of several martial styles by an elderly Redguard weapon-master. The man had explained that the forms he was teaching Ragnar had been passed down though countless generations and originally hailed from the Yokuda peoples, before their disappearance long ago and their descendants fled their homeland.

The forms, called _Taolu_, were meant to help instill discipline and precision into one's combat techniques. Countless hours of repetition give the practitioner finesse and acclimated their muscles to how they would be utilized. The Redguard, inheritors of these traditions, along with their own martial arts passed down from their Yokuda ancestors, were some of the most skilled warriors in Tamriel. True, the Nords and many Orcs were more physically imposing and stronger, but few could match the grace and lethality of these successors to the _Taolu. _

Ragnar saw the truth in it- combined with his natural power, reflexes and brutality, few opponents could match him in straight combat and fewer still lasted more than a mere handful of seconds. He had never forgotten those lessons and now he had come to Sky Haven Temple, where the ancient carvings and palimpsests left behind by the Dragonguard and their Blades successors told much of their martial traditions.

He spun and swung low with his axe, cleaving the foetid air. Without missing a beat he turned the weapon about and struck in the opposite direction, imagining shearing the head from his opponent's shoulders...

The deadly blade stopped, the edge barely kissing Delphine's neck. The Breton warrior did not flinch or even blink.

"Dragonborn, we need to talk..." she said in her plain and unflappable tone. Ragnar stared at her, his eyes wide and his chest heaving as he attempted to rein in his battle fury. She seemed not at all concerned that he was mostly naked, nor that he had nearly taken her head off.

"Do not worry, Sky Haven Temple is as good a place to die as any," she commented, stepping back and letting him compose himself. He turned away and took several deep breaths, cleansing his mind and soul of the storm within. Delphine smirked and allowed herself to gaze at his huge, brawny frame- the definition of his muscles and his relentless power had always astonished her. "Should I leave?"

"No, that's not necessary," he said finally, turning back to meet her gaze. She seemed to be trying to hide a smirk, though he could not figure out why. "What can I do for you, Delphine?"

The smirk seemed to leave her face and her expression grew stern. "I have a question, Dragonborn."

"You need but ask, I will answer anything." Ragnar said simply.

"Have I done something to offend you?" she asked, her tone somewhat demanding.

"I... do not understand."

"Have I done anything that you took exception to and perhaps felt the need to punish me for?" she pressed, clearly bothered by something he had done to her, although he could not for the life of him gauge what it might have been. He certainly had no designs on her. Yes, she was a formidable warrior, but please...

"What did I do to make you think I might be mad at you?" he queried.

"You brought me that brat Lydia!" Delphine snapped, her eyes narrowing. "When you promised to being me recruits to help rebuild the Blades, I assumed you meant you would bring people that would prove useful to us."

"Lydia is a perfectly competent warrior," Ragnar pointed out. "She-"

"She is a _pain in my ass_, Dragonborn," Delphine hissed through her teeth. Ragnar almost took a step backward, so venomous was her tone. "Since you sicced her on me, she had done nothing but complain about anything she is asked to do, she eats like a starving sload and she cannot seem to keep from getting in everyone's way during combat!"

Ragnar made a wry face. "Is she really as bad as all that?"

Delphine shot him a withering and suspicious look. "We have virtually no food left, thanks to her, she was assigned the chore of cleaning dishes and they keep piling up and Esbern nearly blew her up the other day when a dragon attacked and she stepped in front of a fireball meant for the damned thing!"

"But how is she doing aside from that?" pressed Ragnar, desperate to not have Lydia's membership in the Blades revoked.

"Don't think I haven't noticed that her housecarl armour bore the scorings of axe strikes along its back," replied the veteran dragon-slayer. "Clearly you accidentally nailed her more than a few times during her tenure as your servant. She got in your way too, seemingly."

"The Blades and their predecessors were the most formidable and best trained warriors in Tamriel," Ragnar objected, hoping to turn the conversation away from his 'accidental' castigations of Lydia. "Surely if anyone can bring out her true skill, it would be-"

"A miracle and gift of both Akatosh and Talos? I agree." Delphine said, seeing through his nonsense and cutting him off. "We are not a babysitting service, Dragonborn, we are an ancient order of warriors trying to win a war. We're called the Blades, not 'Dueling Dysfunctionals'.

"It was Lydia who aided me when I defeated the Gaulderson brothers and their Draugr minions," he chided. "She has considerable skill in battle."

"I do not deny that, it's everything else about her I object to," Delphine shot back. "What am I supposed to do? Hit the dragons with her?"

"That might just work!" Ragnar laughed. "Her head could be the only substance hard enough to crack their armoured hides..."

In spite of herself, Delphine chuckled, shaking her head. "Maybe I can send her to Markarth for more food and supplies. That should get her out of my hair for a while so I can figure out how best to utilize her."

"What of Utgherd?" he asked. "How is she doing?"

"If she ever manages to channel her anger into a _Th'uum,_ I fear her shouts will surpass yours in short order." Delphine replied. "For all that, though, she is an excellent recruit. Her axe has found its way into the heart of more than a few Forsworn marauders in the region and though the dragon fled from us, she managed to keep its foot."

Ragnar nodded and looked around the huge room they now stood in- cavernous and crafted of ancient gray stone, the walls were decorated with scenes of battle and abstract tales couched in allegory. Such was the way of the Akaviri, mighty among the warriors of old. He found comfort in these surroundings, for he felt a part of these histories and the stone walls seemed to sing to him. He understood the meanings of the tales intuitively, something Esbern was clearly irked by and jealous of. The old man had devoted his life to dragon-lore and the study of the ancient people of Tamriel, and here was Ragnar, who understood everything but couldn't articulate it if he tried.

"The Wall tells us that our forebears defeated Alduin with a shout but fails to mention what that shout is. We need to know, if that's the only way to take the scaly bastard down." Delphine continued, now apparently getting on to her true purpose once she was done venting about Lydia. "Poor Esbern has been squinting at that wall for days and found nothing. Have you discerned anything with your dragonsight?"

"No." Ragnar said flatly, remembering his own frustration at his lack of progress on the subject. "I fear we must turn elsewhere for our answers."

"Meaning you must go to the Greybeards," Delphine concluded. "That's halfway back across Skyrim for answers, Dragonborn. Are we sure there is nothing closer?"

Ragnar closed his eyes, considering his options. He had visited a senile, crazed hermit living on the ice floes north of Winterhold, a man whose mind had been shattered by apparently reading an Elder Scroll. He had babbled on about a book containing the accumulated wisdom of the ages and charged Ragnar with its retrieval. The Nord warrior had not given the matter much thought recently, but under the circumstances it might be his only option.

He considered the trip to Winterhold as opposed to visiting High Hrothgar. The Greybeards revered him as the Dragonborn and taught him everything they could, but they had been so far removed from the world for so long that they were almost incapable of helping him when it came to mundane concerns. If they _did_ know the shout that could defeat Alduin, he somehow doubted it would be given to him without a days-long lecture on its ethical uses. The Greybeards, for as little as they spoke, could be very long-winded when they got on a subject.

"Winterhold it is, then..." he muttered to himself. "Delphine, I will be leaving shortly, I think there is-"

"_Thegn_, Delphine, we have visitors." Lydia announced, striding into the room and bowing her head in respect.

"What is it? Dragons?" Delphine asked, her had going immediately to the sword on her hip.

"No, it's a little stranger than that," admitted the housecarl. "Maybe you should come and see."

Ragnar nodded and followed her, accompanied by Delphine. Lydia seemed more perplexed than worried, so he assumed there was no immediate threat from whoever had come calling. They made their way through the cavernous temple and out to the Karthspire ruins that concealed the entrance. They crossed through the great portal and over the blood seal. Waiting just beyond were the visitors.

Galmar Stone-Fist and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Jarl Ulfric, greetings, and welcome to Sky Haven Temple." Ragnar intoned, bowing his head and giving the Stormcloak salute.

"Indeed, it was most difficult to find," replied the leader of the rebellion in his deep, gravelly voice. "It took no small amount of guile on my part to make my way this far into enemy territory undetected and-"

"How _did_ you find the Temple?" Delphine asked, cutting him off and demanding an answer to the one question clearly on her mind.

"Our young Ragnar is not the only Nord to have some command of the Voice." Ulfric replied simply. "The ancient libraries of Windhelm were some help in that regard, since the scrolls and tomes within were written during the time of Ysgramor himself."

Lydia merely gazed on in stunned silence. Here was the leader of the rebellion, seemingly alone except for his most trusted vassal and her own _thegn_, Ragnar Thunderfist, had greeted him with the traitor's salute. What was happening?

"Our method of getting here is not the issue," Galmar said gruffly. "What brings us is that Ragnar belongs at his lord's side! It is ridiculous that Jarl Ulfric should have to skulk like a thief in the night across Skyrim simply to summon a warrior who has sworn loyalty to him!"

Lydia turned and gazed at Ragnar, not knowing what to say.

"I would not have taken offense if a mere messenger had been sent," Ragnar replied cooly. "I-"

"You deem yourself worthy of an invitation, whelp?" shouted Galmar angrily. "Are you a jarl now?"

"No, he is the Dragonborn," Delphine retorted, stepping in front of Ragnar almost protectively. "His involvement in your rebellion is of no consequence to me, because if we do not defeat Alduin, then the world will end and your cause is for nothing!"

"Step aside, foreigner, or I'll kill you where you stand!" Galmar snarled, beginning to reach for his warhammer. Delphine's hand went for her blade, but Ulfric held up a hand calmly, indicating to his companion that no violence was necessary.

"We have not come to fight," the jarl said. "Ragnar, we have need of you. Are you still committed to our cause?"

"Aye." Ragnar replied simply.

"Your life is one of difficult choices, my friend," Ulfric mused. "You are destined, perhaps, to save the world and yet you must also help keep that very world from tearing itself apart as jarls quarrel. What would you do if your destiny as the Dragonborn and slayer of the World Eater called for you to act against me, if not my rebellion?"

"I would come to you and reason with you," Ragnar said firmly. "As the leader of my Blades has remarked, the Stormcloak rebellion means nothing if the world dies in fire and ash."

"A fair point, and spoken with the truth of a warrior." Ulfric remarked. "I see that you are indeed loyal to our cause, even if you cannot always be by my side." He turned his gaze on Delphine now. "So... the Blades... I had been led to believe that the Thalmor had rid themselves of you completely during the Great War."

"The Thalmor were wrong." Delphine replied, not liking the look in Ulfric's eyes. "We do now as we have ever done. We serve the Dragonborn and live to defeat Alduin. We serve the race of Men, your rebellion is ephemeral to us. Whether you win or the Imperials, we only wish for the victor to be strong enough to defeat the Thalmor and cast them out of Tamriel."

"Fair enough," Ulfric said. "I believe you do not mean to interfere with Ragnar's loyalty to the Stormcloaks, as long as we do not inhibit the destiny of the Dragonborn. And this brings me to my reason for coming. Galmar believes he has found the resting place of the Jagged Crown. The very same crown used to coronate the ancient High Kings of Skyrim."

"And you feel you might have need of my unique skills." Ragnar posited.

"Aye," Galmar interjected, stepping forward. "It lays deep within the ruins of Korvanjund, we believe resting on the head of old Borgas himself. The place is a barrow of ancient evil now, Divines only know what walks within."

"The Stormcloaks wish to bring Lord Ulfric the Jagged Crown as a symbol of his legitimacy but cannot be counted on to fight some Draugr?" Delphine sneered.

"Do you not seek tactical advantage where you can find it?" Ulfric reminded her, cutting Galmar off before her could reply with his weapon. "Young Ragnar has been in more Draugr crypts across Skyrim than anyone I know of. If there is a man alive who could claim to be an authority on dealing with them, it is he."

"That is true," Delphine admitted. "Forgive my harsh words, jarl, I am merely concerned for his well-being. I don't want to see the Dragonborn perish in some musty crypt when there are much bigger concerns in this world."

"Why Delphine, I didn't know you cared." Ragnar remarked, smiling at her slyly.

"You are, on the other hand, more than welcome to take his sense of humour with you," she said dryly, closing her eyes and praying for _drem_. "Korvanjund is in the Pale, Dragonborn, perhaps you are fated to go on this mission with the Stormcloaks, since our own agenda will take you out that way as things stand."

"Perhaps so," Ragnar agreed. "Jarl Ulfric, I will go to Kovanjund and help retrieve that crown."

"Excellent," Galmar declared. "Meet me outside the crypt by the next waning moon. I must get our lord back to Windhelm now."

Without another word, the two men turned and left. Ragnar, Delphine and Lydia watched them go, saying nothing until they were well out of sight.

"They know where we are based now." Delphine muttered. "How did they find us at all?"

"Jarl Ulfric is a clever man," Ragnar replied. "The libraries of Windhelm are surprisingly vast and he knows from me that I reside here, even though I never told him where it was."

"The folly of alliances between men," murmured the Blade. "Are you sure no ill will come of this?"

"Not as long as Alduin lives," Ragnar said grimly. "Remember, he was with me at Helgen. He knows only too well what a threat the World Eater poses. He wanted to make sure that the Temple existed and that he knew where it was. He will not visit again."

"But one day his armies might, if he ever takes the Reach," Delphine concluded. "We will be ready."

She turned and strode back into the Temple, leaving Ragnar alone with Lydia, who just stared at him dumbly.

"Out with it, Lydia." Ragnar said finally.

"How... how could you?" she stammered, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You joined the rebellion?"

"Yes, I did." Ragnar said unapologetically. "This displeases you."

"Well, yes," she exclaimed. "How could you turn your back on Whiterun like this? On Skyrim? On the Empire?"

"Because I do not believe in a weak Empire and a Skyrim that will bend its knee to that Empire, or the Thalmor," he said firmly. "Skyrim is my home and the damned elves will not dictate to me who I can and cannot worship."

"But Skyrim has always been loyal to the Empire." Lydia insisted. "How could you sell your loyalty so easily?"

Ragnar sighed. For all her faults, Lydia was honest, trustworthy and good-hearted. He had always owed her an explanation and perhaps now was the time.

"It has nothing to do with selling my loyalty," he said, turning and walking back toward the temple. They passed through the stone braziers and over the blood seal that his own vitae had finally opened for them. He never ceased to marvel at the sculptures and workings of the ancients in this place. "Ulfric is Skyrim's best chance to regain its soul, a soul that the Empire bartered away for its continued survival. He represents what Nords see in themselves and believe in."

"I... think I understand, Dragonborn," Lydia said hesitantly, as if trying to convince herself. "What... what would you do if he sent you against Whiterun?"

"Then I will take Whiterun for him." Ragnar replied. "Lydia, the sooner this damnable war is over, the better. Skyrim must become stronger, not weaker, and it must not stagnate, as it has been. Whatever else you may say about Ulfric, he is a man of action. The High King is dead and now the remaining jarls must do what they seem to hate most and act, one way or the other. This cannot be a bad thing, even if it brings about change."

"I... know that the Blades are yours to command," she murmured in trepidation. "But, my lord, I am not sure that I could attack Whiterun, even at your behest."

"I would not take you to Whiterun, nor would I ask you to participate in the civil war." Ragnar assured her. "I brought you here to here to help me defeat the dragons, not your fellow Nords."

"Thank you, my _thegn." _Lydia sighed in relief. "I can respect your choice in siding with the Stormcloaks. I promise you that I shall remain loyal to the Blades and not raise my weapon to defend the Imperials."

"That pleases me." Ragnar said, smiling. He gazed at her silently for several moments. She was wearing her Blades armour, burnished to a high sheen, the long sword hanging from her baldric. The Yokuda and Akaviri influences on the design were unmistakable. She blushed under his scrutiny, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

"I have to say, that armour _is_ rather fetching on you..." he commented casually as he turned and walked back up the winding stairs and into the temple. Lydia watched him silently for several seconds before an absurd little smile crossed her face.

Then her stomach growled and she wondered if there was anything to eat.

* * *

"How odd that you should ask me along, Harbinger." Aela commented as they rode through the forest together. Her dapple mare snorted as it kept pace with Ragnar's great stallion. The Companion's red hair whipped in the breeze behind her and Ragnar noted she bore a striking resemblance to someone else he knew.

"I think you will appreciate this challenge," the huge blond warrior replied, his eyes still on the path ahead as they galloped through the night. "I admit I had thought of asking Farkas along, since this is likely to be a very messy brawl, but there might be some need for stealth and subtlety so I thought better of it. And you'd be as handy in a fight against Draugr as anybody."

"I appreciate your confidence in my ability," she said, smiling uncharacteristically. "I have only ever laid eyes on the foul beasts but once, but I slew them easily enough once my arrows had slowed them down."

"I'll wager that their immunity to poisons and toxins came as a nasty surprise to you," Ragnar laughed. "But you are early as good with a blade as you are with a bow, so fighting within the narrow confines of the crypts of Korvanjund should not bother you."

"I'll admit I have not given the matter much thought as to which side of the civil war I fall on," Aela mused. "So we must take this fabled crown from the crypt and hand it over to Jarl Ulfric in order to help legitimize his claim to the throne?"

"General Stonefist is convinced it rests there and I agreed to help retrieve it for him." Ragnar confirmed. "To wear a legend will help with the image, certainly, at least amongst the common folk if not the jarls. But even they will be sore-pressed to deny it."

"I can think of a different head such a crown might look better on," Aela commented casually. "But if I assist you, Harbinger, am I officially throwing in my lot with the Stormcloaks?"

"No," Ragnar said firmly. "You are helping me because I deem it necessary somehow; there is a part you must play that I cannot see clearly yet, but dare not deny you. If old Galmar has anything to say about your presence and involvement, I will make sure he understands, I promise. I intend for the Companions to stay out of the war if at all possible. Jorrvaskr must not take sides, for a greater task might await the Companions still."

"I hear thee, Harbinger. So be it." Aela said, nodding. They continued to ride through the darkness until they reached a small group of horses tethered to the trees. Several of them bore spare gear he recognized as Stormcloak-issue so he indicated they should dismount. The followed the footprints left in the crisp, light snow and finally came upon Galmar's warband- they numbered perhaps a hundred doughty warriors, including his comrade Ralof.

"Good to see you again, my friend!" the Riverwood native said cheerfully as they approached. Ragnar and Ralof clasped wrists and slapped each other on their steel pauldrons as they greeted one another before the Stormcloak captain took him to General Stonefist. The gruff old warrior was looking into the distance, trying to ascertain their target.

"General, Ragnar has arrived!" Ralof said proudly, presenting his friend to the general as if for the first time. The grizzled veteran nodded absently as he continued to scan the night with his cold gaze. When he was satisfied, he turned to address the new arrival.

"Well-met, whelp," he said in the terse, gravelly tone he was so renowned for. "Tonight we shall- who have you brought with you?"

"This is Aela, she is one of the Companions, of who I am the Harbinger as you know," Ragnar said, reminding the old bear of these facts before he could protest. "She is committed to assisting me in any way possible, though she has not plighted any troth to our cause as yet."

"Is she willing to?" Galmar growled.

"That is for her to decide in her own time," Ragnar replied firmly. "But I have seen her single-handedly kill a giant with her blade and she can put an arrow up a torchbug's ass from a full furlong away, so I believe she will be of great use to us tonight."

"We don't need the help of the faithless who won't take the oath!" spat a nearby Stormcloak, scowling at her. "This woman will be a burden!"

He didn't have time to move before Aela was directly in front of him, glaring balefully into his eyes. He seemed astonished and then taken aback.

"General Galmar Stonefist," she said coolly, her eyes still locked with the soldier's. "Do the Stormcloaks accept women within their ranks?"

"Of course." Galmar replied.

"I will not take any such oath tonight, but this wretch here might have to take it again, once I have removed him of the manhood his oversized sword seems to to be compensating for..." she announced, smiling evilly at her victim. He swallowed in fright as he realized her keen hunting knife was pressed to his genitals.

Galmar laughed, as did many more of his troops at the foolish man's predicament. "Very well, Ragnar, she may come, as long as you vouch for her on your honour before the throne of Ulfric. Welcome, Companion, to what is quite possibly the last night of all of our lives."

"To die well is to have lived completely," Aela confirmed, turning away from the man and sheathing her blade. "Lead on, general."

Galmar assembled his men around him so that he could give them their instructions. His mighty warhammer rested across his broad shoulders while his bear-head cowl gave him a feral, savage appearance that all Stormcloaks respected.

"Beware, for this crypt of kings has been undisturbed for centuries," he began. "What lays within is unknown to us, but we must assume the worst. Dread foes and fell magic might greet our intrusion and to disturb our dead is no small heresy. But this must be done if Skyrim is to belong to the Nords once again. Ragnar, tell us of what we might see."

Ragnar nodded. "I have never been to Korvanjund, but in other burial mounds and crypts I have seen the dead walk, brought to life and sustained by foul enchantments long forgotten in another age. They cannot be reasoned with and will seek only your death. They wear ancient armour and wield venerable blades, such as have not been seen in Skyrim since Ysgramor himself walked the land. But do not touch these things, for if the bodies of the Draugr are cursed, so too must their weapons be."

"Indeed," Galmar intoned, nodding. "Plunder nothing, no matter how tempting it might look. We are here for the crown and that alone. "Our foes may already be dead, but then it is up to us to remind them of that fact and put them in their place. The past must not interfere with the future Ulfric has laid out before us. The draugr are soulless and have no reason to fight, whereas you have every reason! Let the fire in your heart burn their withered flesh!"

Ragnar felt Ralof put a hand on his shoulder and thump it firmly. They were ready.

"I have assigned you to your teams, stay with your comrades unless I tell you otherwise. For Skyrim, now boys! Follow me!"

As a group they loped off into the darkness, heading for Kovanjund and the nameless dread within. In spite of his age, Galmar set the pace and many of the younger men had trouble keeping up. There was certainly something to be said for a lifetime of campaigning and experience.

Stendarr's Tear watched overhead as the rebels made their way through the ancient stands of trees, coming ever closer to their target. They were not far off when Ragnar hissed for everyone to stop suddenly, bringing the warband to a jumbled halt.

"Are you the one in command now, Thunderfist?" Galmar growled, glaring at him for his audacity. "Do you need to take a piss or is there another errand you must suddenly run? Shall we simply wait here for you?"

Ragnar ignored the jibe and focused his gaze into the darkness. "Something is wrong," he said quietly. "We are not alone."

"What do you mean?" Galmar challenged.

By way of response, Ragnar crept forward, accompanied by Aela. He crouched behind some rocks, took a deep breath and cleared his mind before allowing the Dov words to flow forth. Behind him he could feel the Stormcloaks and even old Stonefist shifting uncomfortably as the dragon tongue flowed over them.

"Damn," Ragnar muttered, turning and making his way back to the group. "General, there is an Imperial force already at Korvanjund, their numbers similar to our own."

"Bastards," growled Stonefist. "They always seem to know. They must have spies deep amongst us. But that is a problem for later. For now, we must make sure that we retrieve the crown and they will not stop us. Squads _Fehu_ and _Thunraz_ will remain at the entrance once we have secured it and stand guard. Ragnar, you and your Companion will get us close and allow us to strike undetected. Go!"

Ragnar nodded and moved backward the entrance to Korvanjund, which was a long set of stone stairs dug into the earth and leading to the massive crypt beneath. Aela moved beside him, he bow in hand. The black-feathered arrows she loved to use bristled in the quiver on her back. Her eyes glinted in the dim light of the moon, like those of a predator.

Unlike Vilkas and Farkas, she had never expressed an interest in ridding herself of the beast blood that coursed through her veins and her heart. Aela was a true huntress, dedicated not only to combat but to the hunt and the kill. She seemingly knew no fear, seeking only the means and the moment to take her prey. Her gray eyes narrowed as she nodded to indicate she had spied their quarry.

With a simple gesture, Ragnar signaled her to wait and take up position. While she nestled behind an outcropping of rock and nocked an arrow into her composite bow, he moved silently through the night, like a jungle cat of the farthest southern reaches of Tamriel. He had dim memories of stalking the great beasts with his father when he was young, learning how to move silently, remain undetected and close in for the kill.

The wind overhead was picking up, becoming a thin and baleful howl that would aid in his approach. His first target was not more than twenty paces ahead of him now, facing away and looking to the north. He was totally unprepared when Ragnar took his head off in a silent swipe from behind. The man's leather-helmeted head tumbled to the ground, his eyes staring widely.

Another man came unexpectedly around a corner of the stonework that demarcated the entrance to Korvanjund and stopped dead when he saw Ragnar crouched over the corpse of the Imperial he had just slain. He was about to let out a shout of alarm when Aela's arrow buried itself in his throat. He stumbled backwards and fell into the deep trench that formed the entrance to the barrow. Cries of surprise rang out as the Imperial soldiers watched the dead man plummet to the bottom, his body broken by the fall.

"_So much for surprise..."_ Ragnar muttered to himself as he sprang into action. He had to admit that he'd gotten a lot closer than anyone else could have been expected to, especially given Galmar's predilection for simply charging in with a display of force. The enemy would be surprised for only moments before they would alert any forces they had inside the crypt. He surged forward and cut down another soldier with his axe before bearing another over backward with a bash from his sturdy shield. He thrust out with his boot and caught a third man in the chest, caving it in as the steel shattered his ribs.

Aela was moving forward steadily, aiming and shooting while she joined her Harbinger. Not a single arrow went astray and every one laid a man low. The war cries of the Stormcloaks were not far behind and battle was soon joined, the two sides contending for the ancient iron doors that led into Korvanjund. Galmar Stonefist exhorted his men to feats of heroism, supported by Ralof and his other valiant captains. The old warrior smashed a man to the ground with his brutal warhammer and then cracked the skull of another open like a snow melon as he spun about and struck savagely.

Before long, the Imperial soldiers guarding the gate were all dead, the sheer suddenness and ferocity of the Stormcloak attack having overwhelmed them. One Stormcloak lay dead and another was wounded to the point of not being able to continue in. Galmar scowled at the laceration on his right bicep and turned to address his men.

"Now comes the difficult part," he announced. "We have slain twenty, but the greater part of their numbers remain inside and even if we now outnumber them, the narrow corridors and chambers will restrict that superiority. Fight hard and show no fear, for you are the true sons and daughters of Skyrim. Follow me!"

As ordered, Squads _Fehu_ and _Thunraz_ remained behind to guard the entrance against further reinforcements while the rest of the Stormcloaks entered Korvanjund. Even beneath the visors of their helmets, Ragnar could sense their trepidation and even fear. Nords did not believe easily in the phantasmal, but this ancient tombs of kings reeked of unnatural energies and unspeakable evil.

"It... it is not wise to disturb the rest of our ancestors..." stammered one young warrior, clearly unnerved by what he felt. The wide, round entrance chamber they were moving through lay in ruin, mauled by the passing of centuries and the neglect of Akatosh. Crumbling stone lay everywhere, along with shards of ancient pottery and bone. Nestled into alcoves were jars or braziers and tattered banners hung overhead.

"That rest has already been disturbed by the damned Imperials, boy, and if that is not enough to convince you, then hope for those _draugr_ abominations to be present so we can cleans the corruption from King Borlag's tomb." Glamar sneered, clearly not interested in the youth's worries. "Ragnar, take the lead, for you know these crypts better than anyone."

Ragnar moved to the head of the column and crept forward, motioning for them to follow quietly. If he had to face both Imperials and _draugr _then he hoped he might allow them to wear each other down first. He cared not whether he took the crown from old Borlag's head or from the commander of the Imperial detail, he just wanted this done with quickly.

They crept down a long hallway, dimly lit by guttering torches. He stopped and concentrated for a moment, closing his eyes before nodding for Aela to move ahead. She padded forward and peered around a corner. In the blink of an eye she nocked an arrow and fired it- there was a fleshy _thunk!_ sound somewhere ahead and then she motioned that it was safe to continue. Ragnar took the lead again and they passed through another antechamber. Several Stormcloaks muttered in astonishment as they moved by the body of an Imperial soldier, an arrow buried in his eye and pinning him to the massive, ornate plinth behind. Ragnar took no notice, he was more than familiar with Aela's skill with a bow.

"Even for a Nord crypt, this one is old..." he muttered to no one in particular as they crept along, Aela by his side.

"How do you know that?" growled Galmar, seemingly annoyed with any scholarly bent displayed by his men, as if they'd been slacking off studying books instead of honing their combat skills. He was a simple warrior through and through, even if he was amongst the deadliest in Skyrim.

"Just from the artwork on the plinths and walls," Ragnar replied simply, not at all bothered by Galmar's tone. "You don't spend as much time creeping around in these tombs as I have fighting Draugr without learning something. I consider it a tactical advantage, since the older tombs tend to be home to more ancient and powerful enemies. Consider that a warning about what we might face here."

Galmar grunted and they continued moving as quickly as they dared through the tomb. Time was of the essence, but if they went too fast, they might wake the Draugr from their slumber and be held up in vicious fights that would cost them both men and time. The Stormcloaks accompanying Galmar were some of the hardiest available, but Ragnar knew they were going to have their hands full when the Draugr came. Many would go to Sovngarde tonight.

A large room opened before them, the walls lined with upright sarcophagi. Rangar found himself wishing that the Nords had continued with the ancient custom of sending their dead out to sea on burning boats, as tradition dictated that the Atmorans had done. Something in the room gave him an uneasy feeling and he gripped the well-worn handle of his ancient axe harder.

"Stay ready..." he said as loudly as he dared to those following. There was a sound behind them like bursting stone and one of the men cried out in alarm. Ragnar whirled about to see a decaying corpse stumbling out of one of the coffins, clad in ancient, rusting armour and carrying a pitted, scarred sword. Its head turned to gaze at him and within the deep eye sockets gleamed a foul and unnatural light. The draugr howled in its guttural voice and slashed at the closest Stormcloak, the blade cleaving metal, leather and bone to tear itself across the unfortunate man's neck. He fell over, blood spurting from the lethal wound.

He heard several other sarcophagi now splintering open, their denizens shambling forth to fall upon the intruders. Several Stormcloaks shouted defiant warcries and leaped to attack their foes before they were ready. Galmar charged headlong into one Draugr, slamming his warhammer into the thing's chest, crushing the armour and sending it hurtling back against its coffin.

Aela had buried at least three arrows in one foe but it kept staggering toward her, hissing malevolently. She ducked the swipe of a war axe and lunged in, burying her keen hunting knife in its forehead. The abomination fell to one knee before Aela tore her blade loose and stabbed it again, sending it crashing to the floor. She then whirled about, firing an arrow into the temple of a draugr who was chasing a Stormcloak and it fell, the foul light within extinguished.

As the chaotic melee whirled about him, Ragnar rushed toward the front of the chamber, where a lone sarcophagus stood, the heavy stone slab breaking away as some hideous thing within fought to emerge from its imprisonment. The being within stood, its body pulsing with foul energies as it shook the room with its warcry. It carried a dreadful battleaxe, the dark ebony carved with unholy runes. With a grace and limberness belying its rotting form, the Draugr Lord leapt high over the combatants and landed near Ragnar, glaring hatefully at him. Ragnar was ready.

The thing moved with unexpected speed- it lunged in and struck a terrible blow with the battleaxe. Ragnar's arm went numb beneath his shield as he caught the blow and he could feel the evil magicks of the weapon creeping in his fingers, trying to subvert him. He snarled and forced the foulness away as he counterstruck, his own ancient axe lashing out at the Draugr's neck.

The undead thing grinned and chuckled as it caught Ragnar's blow on the long haft of its weapon and shoved him backward. Before Ragnar could move in again, it thrust its palm forth, the merciless eyes blazing as shards of enchanted ice and frost lashed forth, washing over Ragnar like the worst blizzards of the far north. He gritted his teeth as he moved forward, feeling the magickal cold sapping the vitality from his muscles, making it difficult to move. It would not be long before he would be unable to move at all, every fluid in his body and his heart turned to ice.

But where his limbs would fail, the soul of the dragon would not- heat coursed within him and his fury burned bright. No mere undead _thing_ would stop him...

"_**YOL!"**_

Roiling flames spilled forth from him mouth as he shouted in a language so ancient that even the Draugr were but wisps in time when it was spoken freely. The Draugr Lord was engulfed in fire and it screeched in pain as what remained of its flesh charred and burned. Ragnar whirled and the blow struck the vile thing's head from its shoulders, the ebony battleaxe clattering to the earth. Without waiting to see if it was truly dead, he sprang at another foe who was attempting to kill one of his men. He hacked it down savagely and then slammed his steel boot into the face of a third.

Aela leaped by him and took down another foe while Galmar smashed his Draugr to the ground, its head now a mess of mangled bone, flesh and helmet. Silence took over the chamber and Ragnar surveyed the scene- four Stormcloaks lay dead or nearly dead, unable to continue moving forward. Thirteen Draugr lay motionless in the chamber, sent back to sleep once and for all.

Ralof was pale but in control of himself as he approached Ragnar. His eyes were wide and his hands twitched on the haft of his weapon. "What... what foulness do we fight against?" he stammered.

Ragnar shook his head. "It is an ancient evil, my friend, one best not discussed except maybe over a horn of mead in the safety of a blazing hearth-hall. It makes for better tales than explanations. All I will say is that you need not fear that we are defiling our Nord ancestors, for these are but mockeries of them, cursed to unlife. Death is a mercy to them, one dispatched quickly and without regret."

"Harbinger, your arm." Aela said, coming up and looking at Ragnar's right shoulder with concern. He glanced at his shoulder and grimaced in annoyance- right below the pauldron of his steel armour was an ugly gash made by some enemy weapon, though he did not know which one. He removed his left gauntlet and placed his hand over the wound, closing his eyes and muttering an incantation evoking Kynareth and Mara. His eyes glowed and those nearby looked on in wonder as the laceration disappeared, leaving only a scar.

"Are you a healer?" Ralof asked in wonder as he watched the wound disappear before his eyes, while Ragnar was bathed in a shimmering light.

"It's just something I picked up while I studied at the College of Winterhold." Ragnar replied.

"I did not know you trucked with mages," exclaimed another Stormcloak,, who watched with a mixture of awe and revulsion. "Sorcery has no place amongst true Nords."

"Who do you think enchanted the necklace you wear as a family heirloom, you idiot?" Ragnar snapped at the young man, irritated by how obtuse they could be. "Or were you simply unaware that it was a charm to ward off evil?"

The Stormcloak looked down at his pendant in wonder for several moments, as if he could not decide whether to remove it or not.

His wound healed, Ragnar now stooped and picked up the ebony battleaxe the Draugr Lord had dropped. The touch of it tingled his fingers and he gripped the weapon hard, as if trying to choke the curse out of it. He sighed finally and nodded, slinging the weapon across his back. It would be worth much coin if they managed to make it out of here alive.

"We are not here to pillage, Thunderfist!" barked Galmar. "Have you forgotten our mission?"

"Not at all," Ragnar replied, looking at Galmar stonily. "Perhaps if I wear a little extra weight, the rest of you might be able to keep up though..."

Galmar gritted his teeth, but ignored the jibe. He waved his troops forward again and they resumed their trek through Korvanjund.

"How is it that those damned Draugr did not attack the Imperials if they got here first?" Ralof wondered aloud as they crept along. He found his surroundings unnerving, they seemed unfathomably ancient and alien to him. Nord in origin or no, this was an entirely different world to him.

"They either took another route or the Draugr were not fully awakened when they came through, Ragnar replied simply. "Fear not, they will doubtless encounter such foes before their sojourn through Korvanjund is over and I somehow doubt they will show the same mettle as you all did in the face of such danger."

They continued on, deeper into the tombs and catacombs of their long-dead ancestors. They encountered the occasional Draugr but mostly ended up fighting off skeevers, who swarmed after the fresh prey. Ragnar picked up the corpse of one of the disgusting little things and sniffed it curiously. He then concentrated, causing the skeever to ignite, the flames quickly roasting the flesh. He sniffed it again and then stripped off some of the meat with his teeth, masticating thoughtfully on the rodent before swallowing and muttering to himself. The Stormcloaks watched in astonishment while Aela merely rolled her eyes.

"By the Eight, Harbinger, is there _anything_ you will not try to eat?" she said in exasperation. "It's like dealing with a three year-old, you put everything in your mouth."

"If we're not interfering with your culinary endeavours, your lordship," Galmar growled impatiently. "Whenever you feel like proceeding."

Ragnar tossed aside the skeever and continued on. Torches became necessary as the catacombs grew dark and the braziers that normally illuminated the walls diminished in number. Aela, creeping just ahead of the warband, stopped suddenly, listening to something that caught her ear.

"Battle ahead, Harbinger," she said in a grim tone. "Do you hear it?"

Ragnar listened and nodded, confirming his companion's statement. "Looks like the Imperials have found the Draugr, my friends," he declared. "General Galmar, your orders?"

Galmar grunted as he pondered the situation. "While it would make sense to let them wear each other down, we must brook no delay. We will push through the fight if we have to, but we will slay any who get in our way. Forward!"

The Stormcloaks broke into a run, determined to sweep aside all opposition. Aela and Ragnar were the most fleet afoot and led the charge. Aela's keen eyes spotted the chamber ahead where a messy brawl was underway. Imperial soldiers fought desperately against the relentless undead that emerged from their coffins and tombs. Cries of panic and pain were punctuated by the unearthly growls of the Draugr and the harsh shouts for discipline by the Imperial commander.

Aela kept running but noticed the floor of the multi-level chamber was slick with oil. Suspended from the ceiling were small pots that seemed to burn with a magical flame. Without breaking stride she aimed her composite bow and loosed an arrow- the missile sped through the air and snapped the cord holding one of the pots in twain. The ancient ceramic vessel plunged to the floor and shattered, the fire within causing the entire first level of the chamber to ignite, immolating Imperial and Draugr alike.

The Stormcloaks stopped at the edge of the chamber, not daring to step any closer while the conflagration continued within. Screams of terror and agony echoed through Korvanjund as both mortal and undead were burnt to a crisp in seconds.

But Ragnar felt a presence within, something that stirred fury and hatred in his heart. It was a presence he knew and his stomach knotted, aching for revenge. He held up a hand, indicating none should follow him and then dashed through the flames, heedless of the peril. A Draugr, still on fire, staggered up to try and grapple with him, but he shoulder-blocked his way by, knocking it to the ground. He could hear the exclamations of shock from his own troops as they watched him leap into the inferno, thinking him mad.

He emerged on the other side of the flames, near the wooden steps that led up to the second level of the chamber. Scrambling and clambering onto them and trying to to get to safety were the remaining Imperial soldiers, along with their commander, who was yelling for order. Ragnar's blood became ice-cold as he recognized the man- he was a veteran Imperial captain who had chased Ragnar's family almost right across Tamriel, to apprehend them as traitors and Talos worshippers. He had hounded them until Ragnar's mother nearly died of heart failure and his father had remained behind to fight and give his wife and young son a chance to escape into the swamps of Blackmarsh.

He had cost Ragnar his family and his childhood. There was only one way he could ever pay for what he'd done.

Ragnar stood at the foot of the stairs, glaring at the Imperials, who seemed astonished to see him. The commander looked at him disdainfully, thinking Ragnar another Stormcloak peasant only good for killing.

But his demeanor changed when Ragnar removed his helmet and revealed his face. Recognition and wonderment dawned on the man's face slowly and then a grim smile.

"So, the one task that I ever left unfinished has finally come back to see it's completion," he declared haughtily, seemingly not intimidated by Ragnar. He motioned his men to moved to the top of the stairs and drew his keen sword, which glinted balefully in the light of the fires. He slowly stepped down the stairs, keeping his eyes on Ragnar. "Come to join your parents, boy? A fitting end for you."

"There is no fitting end but vengeance," Ragnar snarled, picturing the man's heart beating in his fist. "For the death of my mother and father, you will pay a price you cannot even fathom."

"We shall see, brat..." said the captain. He seemed to be in his late forties or early fifties, but he was strongly built, his skin tan and leathery, his muscles pronounced and his sinews lithe. He had fought his way through the damned Draugr, he was not about to let some Nord peasant undo him where the living dead could not.

Ragnar did not put his helmet back on but kept his eyes on the Imperial. The man circled warily, knowing his men were watching and looking for his guidance in this grim and terrible place. He could not afford to be held up in his quest to retrieve the Jagged Crown before Ulfric Stormcloak did, not when they were so close. He had to make this quick.

He lunged in and stabbed, the shining steel piercing metal and sliding into Ragnar's flank. The Imperial commander's eyes widened in shock as Ragnar gripped his sword hand with terrifying strength, holding it in place and pinning the man to him. His teeth gritting as icy pain crawled through his body, Ragnar kept firm hold as he raised his axe. The imperial captain struggled wildly to escape but Ragnar would not let go. The ruse had worked.

Ragnar's axe came down, biting through the captain's shoulder armour and going into his torso. The captain shuddered in shock and coughed blood, spattering Ragnar's breastplate with his vitae. Alive but dying, he slowly sank to his knees, his eyes still wide, everything becoming cloudy. Ragnar glared down at his hated foe coldly, making sure he was all the captain could see as life ebbed from his body.

Ragnar barely noticed the Stormcloaks rampaging by, the flames having died down and allowing them to chase the panicked Imperials, who routed when they saw their leader fall. Not a single one would leave Korvanjund alive, dying far from their homes in Cyrodiil and beyond. Ragnar ignored their cries of fright and their pleas for mercy, none of it mattered to him. All he saw was the man dying before him, his vengeance nearly complete.

Nearly.

"Death is too good for you," Ragnar growled, reaching into a small pouch on his belt and drawing forth a small item. "Know that you will serve me from now on, your spirit spilling blood in my mother and father's name. Thus will they be avenged."

The man sputtered and coughed in panic as he recognized what Ragnar held- a black soul gem. He could do nothing as Ragnar forced him onto his back and held him there, holding the jewel against his heart inside the deep wound he had made in the man's chest. The body jerked and convulsed wildly as immortal energies swirled around the gem before disappearing into it. The soul gem gleamed wickedly as it consumed and contained its prize, the commander bound forever now to Ragnar's will.

Ragnar rose slowly, picking up his ancient axe and looking at the pulsing jewel in his hand. He became dimly aware of Aela standing at his side. He sighed as he felt the icy burn of the wound in his flank return. He put a hand over the bloody mess and muttered another prayer, feeling the wound heal and his tissues knit themselves back together. While he felt mostly whole again, he also felt very drained, at least spiritually.

"Harbinger," she said softly. "We should continue on."

Ragnar nodded and put the gem back in the pouch he had taken it from. He picked up his helmet and placed it on his head, feeling a keen sense of accomplishment. A great weight that had burdened him for years was lifting and he would be the better for it. It was now time to accomplish what Ulfric had sent them to do.

* * *

He trudged by the dead Imperial soldiers and took the lead of the group. He led them through the maze of Korvanjund, finding alternate routes where their paths were blocked, solving the uncanny ancient Nord puzzles he had become used to in these burial mounds and overcoming the perilous traps meant to discourage people from disturbing the dead. Two more Stormcloaks perished as pendulum blades turned a short hallway into a deadly trap, but Ragnar rolled forward hastily, avoiding certain death. He found a corroded chain on the other side and yanked it forcefully, causing the blades to retreat into the walls, temporarily held at bay. The remaining Stormcloaks hustled through, several of them now beginning to appreciate Ragnar's command of arcane Draugr lore.

"Harbginer, what do you make of this?" Aela asked as they came across the bodies of several Imperial soldiers at a juncture of hallways. They showed no signs of what killed them and they hadn't been dead for long.

Ragnar knelt next to the corpses and inspected them, turning them over and trying to ascertain the cause of their demise. He found one clutching something and liberated the object- an ebony artifact carved in the shape of a dragon's claw.

"Haven't you done enough looting?" sneered Galmar in contempt.

Ragnar said nothing but stood and continued on, leading them deeper into the crypt. They finally approached a massive stone door, circular in design and cunningly etched with animal glyphs, after the manner of the ancient Nords and men of Atmora.

"So, what now?" Ralof wondered aloud. "Do... do we have to figure out how to order the symbols if we are to pass?"

"What say you, Thunderfist?" Galmar grunted. "Do you have any answer to this riddle?"

Ragnar strode forward and examined the totems carved into the banded stone- he could identify the symbols for wolf, moth and dragon. He clenched his fists and rotated his shoulders while removing his steel armour. Bare-chested, he now reached up and gripped his fingers into the grooves of the outermost circle that formed the door. With all his might he began to pull, every muscle in his massive frame knotting and flexing as he contested the ancient door.

Slowly, inexorably, the circle began to move. Stone grated against stone and the Stormcloaks watched in silent awe as Ragnar forced his will on the barrier. Grinding loudly, the circle moved until he had centered the symbol of the dragon at the top. He then took a moment to catch his breath before hooking his fingers into the middle circle, moving it as he had the outer one. It came to rest on the symbol of the moth. Aela moved closer, watching in fascination, although no one could quite tell if she was watching the door or Ragnar's muscles as they rippled under his skin. They all thought better than to ask, because none of them except maybe Galmar fancied themselves a match in battle for one of the most famous of the Companions.

Ragnar now began to move the innermost circle, letting it come to rest on the image of the wolf. He stopped and knelt for a moment, panting heavily and spent by his efforts.

"The door has not moved," Galmar observed skeptically. "Are you sure you understand the puzzle?"

Ragnar fixed him with a stony look and then pulled the ebony dragon claw off his belt. He now shoved it roughly into a small metal depression at the center of the stone bands he had moved and gave it a twist. There was a clunking sound and he yelped and dove out of the way as darts from hidden traps along the walls filled the corridor. Aela and the Stormcloaks scattered and took cover, trying desperately not to die. Fifteen seconds had passed before the lethal barrage subsided. Ragnar stood and approached the door, frowning.

"Damn," he muttered. "That wasn't it."

"You don't say..." Galmar sneered, two of the darts sticking out of the ears of the bear cowl that formed his helmet and badge of office. "Any other bright ideas, oh sage?"

Ragnar ignored the old warrior and waved everyone back, away from the danger zone. Everyone moved, except Aela, who stood by his side, unwilling to leave him. He rotated the outer circle again until it displayed the symbol of the wolf. He stared at the puzzle for a few moments, ignored the middle ring and moved the inner ring until it showed the dragon. Finally, he stuck the ebony claw back into the metal aperture at the center and twisted it again. He was rewarded with the sound of ancient mechanisms moving and the bands of stone all suddenly moved of their own accord, lining up until they all displayed the dragon.

Ragnar hastily withdrew the ebony claw and put if back on his belt. The hallway rumbled as the massive circular door began to sink into the ground, allowing access to the passage beyond. Stale air that carried the stink of the grave rushed out to greet them. Ragnar waited until the door was fully descended before motioning for the others to join him.

Aela helped him back into his steel armour and they continued their quest. Galmar could sense they were nearing their goal and moved with more urgency and less caution than he had shown since they descended into the crypts. Even if he was not afraid, he was certainly eager to leave Korvanjund behind, and Ragnar didn't blame him.

"We are close now, be on your guard!" the old warrior announced as he began to run, his massive warhammer firmly in his grip. Ragnar and Aela kept pace but then shouts of alarm went up as Draugr burst from their coffins and concealed sarcophagi along the walls of the antechamber they were now in. Battle erupted behind them and Galmar turned back to aid his men.

"Get to the crown!" he shouted back at Ragnar and Aela. "We will come to aid you as soon as we have dealt with these foes!"

Ragnar nodded and sped down the corridor, followed by Aela. They burst into a wide chamber, meant to mimic the throne of room of a living king. In the center of the hall was a massive throne, carved out of the stone it sat on. Resting on the throne, as if in repose, was an ancient corpse. Sitting on the withered head was the Jagged Crown.

"Be careful Harbinger, it cannot possibly be this easy..." Aela warned as they approached the throne. As if to confirm her statement, terrible howls arose from the walls of the chamber and two Draugr of enormous strength converged on them. Ragnar sensed their foul energies and knew that these were two of the most formidable Draugr he had ever faced. It would take everything he had to defeat these foes.

To his dismay, though, the task of defeating the Draugr Overlords would fall to Aela alone, since the ragged form on the throne stirred and began to rise. Unnatural eyes gleamed evilly from beneath the crown the thing wore as a helmet and its ancient armour was etched with baleful runes. The sword in its withered hand glittered like ice.

"King Borlag, you will give the crown to me and return to your eternal sleep!" Ragnar shouted as he sprinted toward the figure.

The skeletal being cackled maniacally through its fleshless lips and its body coursed with foul power, exposure to which might have overwhelmed or even killed a lesser man. Ragnar had to defeat the monarch and quickly, before he could exert his full strength.

Their blades locked and they strained against one another, vying for advantage. The ancient king hissed at Ragnar, craving his soul, hating his life. Ragnar was dimly aware of Aela shouting and swearing as she engaged the two Draugr guardians of the king, clearly irritated by their insistence on not dying easily.

"I... will... destroy you!" she bellowed somewhat uselessly. It probably hadn't occurred to her that the Draugr didn't even speak any dialect of Nordic that she could understand, nor they hers, even if they were inclined to listen to her.

Ragnar felt Borlag's deadly will and vile energies washing over him, threatening to consume his soul if he showed any weakness. He was baffled by the undead king's brawn, unable to shift or move his weapon even slightly. They were deadlocked for strength and their duel became one of wills, a deadly contest of resolve and mastery of forces few could comprehend.

Ragnar's mind burned as the king fed foul, unholy images into it, letting Ragnar see a distant and terrible past where mortals were enslaved to dragons and served as little more than food or sport for them. Only those wise enough to bend their knee to the great beasts were spared this hellish existence, but they paid an even worse price, shackled forever to the will of their masters, doomed to undeath and servitude through all eternity. And when the dragons had been defeated, their suffering continued, for thousands of years and ages uncounted.

A grin passed over Borlag's skull as Ragnar's psyche recoiled at the touch of these blasphemous images. But the warrior fought back, his spirit blazing as he trapped Borlag's mind with his own, letting the king see the defeat of the dragons, their mortal agonies as they died and the doom of any foolish enough to follow them. Ragnar's soul howled about how they had given their spirits and humanity up for a lie, a great falsehood that Akatosh himself would not allow. The folly and ridicule they would feel and so richly deserve, the scorn of the survivors, who had endured and prevailed. Sovngarde would be denied to them. Oblivion and nothingness awaited.

The king screamed in rage and exerted his strength yet again, nearly forcing Ragnar back physically. The Nord warrior gritted his teeth, determined to not be moved. He heard Aela cry out in pain as one of the Draugr wounded her, but he could not go to her aid. She was on her own.

But then he heard panting and a bestial snarl and he felt an icy dread. What followed seconds later was a dreadful roar and deafening howl. In order to survive, Aela had unleashed the boon of Hircine, assuming the form of a werewolf to deal with her foes and Ragnar doubted that even these horrific beings would survive what came next.

He shoved the terrible sounds out of his mind, focusing all his energies on Borlag. Their eyes met and he reached out and took the king by the throat. Borlag gurgled and hissed, trying to get a grip on Ragnar as well.

"_I am Dragonborn,"_ Ragnar said in Borlag's mind. _"And I am the doom of all your kind."_

If such a thing was actually possible, Borlag's eyes widened. He screeched viciously as he fought to recover, but he felt his energies ebbing before the unexpected and fatal revelation. He could now see the truth of it, he couldn't ignore the fell words. The mortal before him, his soul blazed, smelled and even tasted like that of a dragon. The harbingers of Akatosh, champions of mortalkind against the predations of Alduin and his brood.

Ragnar seized the momentary lapse in Borlag's defenses and reached out to take hold of the Jagged Crown that sat on the king's head. He pulled it free with a brutal yank and before Borlag recovered, Ragnar brought the entire world and heavens crashing down around him.

"_**FUS... RO-DAH!"**_

Korvanjund shook as if the earth itself were trying to swallow it whole. The frail form of King Borlag hurtled backward and shattered against his throne, reduced to dust and shards of bone in an instant.

And then the grand chamber was silent.

Ragnar's chest heaved as he caught his breath, exhausted by the titanic battle of wills he had just fought. He could feel the crown in his hands and he gazed down at it silently. It seemed so dull and plain to him, made of simple steel and fixed with bone. There was nothing impressive or magical about it, and yet somehow this was the symbol of ancient legitimacy in Skyrim and the signal of providence. He who wore the crown was High King of all Nords.

Absurd.

He heard a growl and turned to look at Aela, or at least what used to be Aela. The remains of the Draugr Deathlords were strewn across the chamber, torn apart by her beast form's primordial savagery. The hulking, dark-furred menace glowered at him now, its claws and fangs dripping with ichor and other foulness. The eyes glinted with the promise of the hunt and a need for fresh prey. Taller even than him, the beast watched Ragnar warily, discerning his intent.

"Aela, take hold of yourself." Ragnar said in a firm voice as he approached, his gaze locked with hers. The werewolf's golden eyes narrowed and the beast snarled and lunged in, its bloody maw wide. The jaws clamped down on Ragnar's forearm, biting through the steel and into his flesh. Ragnar grunted but endured the pain, knowing that Aela would not let go.

"Dammit, Aela, listen to me!" he said fiercely as the pain lanced through his body, her mouth closing down harder. "Remember yourself, let go of the beast. It has served its purpose..."

The eyes continued to flash but lost some of their wildness as he spoke. Little by little, the hideous jaws relinquished their grip on his arm and finally Aela stepped back, panting and her tongue lolling out of her mouth. The beast let out a sickened groan and then seemed to curl up on itself, contorting and warping unnaturally for several moments, becoming smaller and more frail, more... human.

Ragnar watched passively until only Aela the Huntress of the Companions remained. She was on her hands and knees, naked and trembling, her eyes wide. Ragnar moved to her side and helped her up. She looked up into his eyes, her own wide with emotion.

"Harbinger..." she said in an unusually quiet voice.

Ragnar coughed and dispelled the moment by scowling at his arm. "You bit me... again."

Aela blinked and looked down at his arm, making a face as she spied the wound. "Oh... sorry."

"If you've infected me again I am going to be very upset..." he muttered as he moved to gather up her gear which lay strewn nearby. Aela had the rather distressing habit (or pleasing habit, depending on how one looked at it) of wearing nothing under her ancient armour. Small wonder that the male Companions were always trying to sit across the table from her at dinner time in Jorrvaskr.

"If memory serves, your dragon nature more or less prevents you from succumbing to the beast blood," Aela observed as she took her armour back from Ragnar. She was unashamed of her nakedness, especially around him. "Your first transformations were difficult and messy. Eventually you just could not anymore."

"Let us hope that continues to be the case," he replied. "But you still bit me."

"Then I'll owe you a flagon of mead back at Jorrvaskr." Aela said simply, noticing that he he was trying to not seem terribly concerned with the wound, even if he was choosing to complain about it like Farkas did about cleaning up bodies.

Mere seconds later, Galmar, Ralof and the remaining Stormcloaks charged into the chamber. Less then thirty remained, but they had obviously overcome their foes.

"Looking for this?" Ragnar said to Galmar as he tossed the crown casually to the old warrior. Galmar caught it and stared in wonder, as if trying to decide if the legend was real.

"You... took this from Borlag?" he asked.

"Only by nearly bringing Korvanjund down around us and smashing him into dust," Ragnar said wearily, sitting down and gripping his wounded forearm, trying to summon the mental strength to heal himself.

"Allow me, Harbinger..." Aela said with uncharacteristic gentleness as she came over and took a small phial off her belt. She held the cured glass container to Ragnar's lips and tilted it back, allowing the cloudy red liquid within to go down his throat. A warm glow filled him and he felt the sharp pain of the wound recede, eventually becoming just a dull ache.

Aela had used one of her precious healing potions on him, something she had never done for anyone before as far as he knew, even Skjor. It was indeed a sign of her devotion to him that she had willingly and readily done such a thing. It was rumoured they had been heirlooms and gifts from her mother.

He smacked his lips as he stood with her assistance. "Is that honey?"

"My mother added a little honey and juniper to her healing potions to take away the bitter aftertaste,"  
Aela replied. "Admit it, they taste better than the healing potions you keep trying to concoct."

"Damned right, more effective, too," Ragnar agreed as he clenched and unclenched his fist and rotated his forearm in satisfaction. "My thanks, Aela."

The warrior-woman actually blushed. "I should be thanking you, Harbinger, for helping me force the beast to relinquish its grip on me."

"I still have two Glenmoril witch heads, you know," he offered. "We could go to Ysgramor's tomb and-"

"Not yet, Harbinger," Aela said, leaning down to examine the bodies of the Draugr she had slain. "I have not made my peace with Hircine yet. I am still his huntress and I do not know when my time will come. Sovngarde may yet await me, but for now the Hunting Grounds and Fields of Blood are my eternity."

Ragnar nodded, knowing not to press the issue. They had come for the Jagged Crown and this they had done. The fight had been glorious and many songs would be sung around Jorvasskr for years to come. Few foes in Skyrim were more deadly than the Draugr and he had bested all he had encountered.

"A great victory!" declared one of the surviving Stormcloaks, his sword thrust in the air. "We have much to celebrate! Since we cannot pillage this old ruin, we should find a fat merchant or farmer and convince him to share his wealth with us as our reward!"

"South of us, near Whiterun, lies a sprawling mansion called Heljarchen," added another, his eyes shining with a greedy light. "We could strip it bare, anyone with that much wealth is surely allied with the Imperials. We might even-"

"You will do no such thing," Ragnar interrupted, his tone firm and carrying a hint of danger. "Steer clear of Heljarchen Hall."

Galmar scowled at him. "I will decide if the men have earned these rights, Thunderfist, not you. You do not command here."

"Are you telling me that I have no right to warn the men not to pillage my own home?" Ragnar growled, regretting that he had been forced to reveal his domicile to the Stormcloaks. Now Ulfric would know and have some leverage over him.

"You are the lord of Heljarchen Hall?" Ralof exclaimed, looking at Ragnar in amazement. "That would make you the _thegn_ of the Pale and Dawnstar."

"Aye," Ragnar confirmed, nodding his head. "Jarl Skald allowed me to purchase and build on the land, if I agreed to defend the southern borders of the Pale from marauders and Imperial troops. He no doubt thinks I can handle a small band of miscreant ruffians."

The Stormcloaks dropped the subject, though Galmar still glowered at him for a few moments. "Come," he said gruffly, sticking the crown inside a sack he carried. "We must return to Windhelm. Are you coming this time, Thunderfist?"

"Aye," Ragnar agreed. "I shall follow you, as soon as Aela and I have made sure that the foulness is cleansed from Korvanjund. It is not fitting for our ancestors to be afflicted with the corruption that was imposed upon them. Allow me to stay, general, and I will meet you in Windhelm. I should not be more than a day or two behind."

Galmar considered and then nodded. He led the Stormcloaks out of the throne hall and through Korvanjund. Ragnar waited until they were gone before he drew a deep breath and sighed wearily. Aela turned to him.

"Harbinger, do you really think it will take two days to clear out this crypt?" she asked.

"Doubtful," Ragnar replied, looking around at their surroundings. "However, Korvanjund will certainly yield forth a great deal of treasure for us to plunder and make our own."

Aela raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you just tell the Stormcloaks to not defile their ancestors by plundering? How is it any different for us?"

"The Draugr have no need of such loot," he pointed out, seemingly perplexed as he explained what should have been obvious. "One could argue that to leave these treasures in their undead hands is the true dishonour and disgrace. I simply concluded that the gold and jewels we now liberate would better serve our purposes than those of a cluster of scruffy rebels."

"You do not seem to have much respect for the rebellion you have chosen to throw your lot in with." Aela observed.

"I respect the cause," Ragnar said, feeling like he could now walk. "Some of its adherents, not so much maybe."

"And Jarl Ulfric?"

Ragnar was silent for a moment. "That remains to be seen. I am a tool to him, I know this. But what remains to be seen is his sense of honour. I will draw my conclusions from there. I can probably stomach him sitting on the throne as high king if Skyrim is free of the Thalmor and a weak Empire."

"Just when I think I have you figured out," Aela muttered as she followed her Harbinger, to whom she was more devoted than she would ever admit. "Come, let us do what we must."

* * *

They took their time, allowing Ragnar to regain his strength. Aela carried her share of the coin they plundered and a few weapons but gaped at how much her companion seemed to be able to bear.

"I know you are strong, Harbinger, but that is just scary," she commented, watching as he bore more than five normal men could possibly carry. How are even you carrying all that?"

"Hm?" he replied absently, turning his head to look at her. "Oh, it's this," Ragnar said, indicating an amulet around his neck. It was of old Nordic design but inlaid with malachite and she could feel it radiate some sort of mystical energy. "This is an amulet from the College of Winterhold, enchanted to allow the person wearing it to bear great burdens for extended periods. I like to keep it handy for these situations."

"I see." Aela mused, still bewildered that Ragnar had been a student at the college of Winterhold, and an apt one apparently. She had seen him once in his college robes and had to admit he'd looked ridiculous- his massive frame threatening to tear the delicate fabrics straining to clothe him. Rumour had it that an enchantment was necessary just to keep his robes from shredding when he moved, forget any other properties they might have been imbued with. "Did you really turn down the position of Arch-Mage of Winterhold?"

"Aye, that I did," he replied, stopping to wrench open an ancient urn bigger than Aela. He fished out a handful of gold coins and squinted at them. "Hm, dating back to the First Empire. Korvanjund is damned old, even older than Borlag. The trading caravans will probably give me a hundred Septims for each of these."

"So why did you not take it?" Aela pressed, not really caring for a lesson in numismatics. Ragnar had a decidedly intellectual bent that caught people off-guard if they did not know him. He looked like everyone's image of Talos- tall, strongly built, blond of hair, blue-eyed and with a rock-like jaw. It was no wonder Njada Storm-Arm talked about the Harbinger in her sleep.

"The College would require my full-time attention to run, whereas the Companions are a little more self-sufficient. My focus remains finding a way to destroy the dragons that plague Skyrim."

"Yes, well I can see how that and fighting in a rebellion might occupy a man..." she muttered under her breath, hoping her tone was not too sarcastic. She rolled her eyes and looked away as he plucked some insect off the wall and bit it in half, tasting for something.

"Nothing..." he grumbled and tossed the carcass away, resuming his trek.

"Okay, I probably shouldn't, but I need to ask," Aela confessed. "Why in the name of the Divines do you insist on tasting _everything _you come across? Its just weird."

"Potion ingredients," he replied simply. "You'd be surprised how many mundane objects in our everyday lives make useful components in potions."

"Maybe, but if I ever find a stinkbug's carapace in potion you give me, I'll never speak to you again. I've tried one of your 'experimental' healing potions and it smelled worse than Farkas after he's been into the bean stew. And the taste was-

"Not everyone can have your mother's gustatory expertise with potions," he groused, leading her through a dark chamber. "And even if they taste bad, you must admit they are effective."

"Mayhap, once you get over wanting to die from the stench," Aela added, smiling and enjoying irking the normally unflappable Ragnar. "I'd rather eat _hakarl_ again."

Several hours had passed before Ragnar deemed Korvanjund sufficiently scoured of valuables. Bandits and marauders would eventually have come and pillaged the tomb in any event, once word got out of the fighting between the Stormcloaks and the Imperials. He was carrying so much plunder that even with his enchanted amulet he was finding it difficult to transport everything.

Thank the Nine for horses, then. They made it back to their mounts and loaded their spoils, taking care not to weigh the beasts down. Ragnar ended up walking alongside his steed while Aela was perched precariously atop hers between bags of gold and various equipment they had looted.

"We will make for Heljarchen Hall," Ragnar stated, beginning to lead the horses south. "We can drop off my plunder there and then you may continue on to Whiterun. I will move on to Windhelm then. I shouldn't keep Jarl Ulfric waiting."

They moved swiftly through the night and the following day, encountering few obstacles outside of the Pale's obstinate terrain. A pack of wolves had caught their scent and moved in to attack, but a single arrow from Aela's bow felling their leader put the rest to flight.

"Are there indeed trolls in these hills, Harbinger?" she asked as they made their way down the slopes of the foothills, heading for the wide, green plains of Whiterun.

"Some," Ragnar replied, still leading his horse for the reins. He was carrying more than enough of his loot to make sure the animal was not overburdened. "I have seen to the demise of a few in this vicinity, once I took up residence in Heljarchen. They stay away now, as do the giants, sensing something more dangerous than them now lives in the region.

Distantly they heard a wailing roar that carried through the mountains. Aela's hand went instinctively to her bow, her eyes hard and wary.

"Was that a dragon, Harbinger?" she asked, perhaps the faintest tinge of anxiety in her voice. Her could hear her fingers flexing on the well-worn grip of her bow.

"Aye, one lives on the peak of Shearpoint," he confirmed, seemingly unconcerned. "He's been there for some time now. I really need to deal with that before he becomes a true menace to both the Pale and Whiterun."

Aela squeezed her eyes shut as she attempted to deal with Ragnar's cavalier attitude to the presence of a dragon in the region. Shearpoint may have been many leagues away, but a dragon was a dragon. What power had the Divines granted this man that he showed no fear in the face of such a terrible foe?

"He avoids me," Ragnar said, seeming to read her thoughts. "Even if he is not afraid of me or thinks I cannot slay him, he knows that I will be a lot more trouble than I am worth if he attacks. He can sense my soul and chooses to hunt elsewhere."

Day turned to night and then came the dawn. They reached the plateau on which sat Heljarchen Hall and Ragnar gazed down at his steading in satisfaction. It was good to be home.

As they rode down the hill toward the grand hall, the front doors opened and out raced Camilla, sister of the trader Lucan Valerius and Ragnar's first wife. Her eyes shone with unbridled delight as she ran to her husband's arms. She threw herself into his arms and he hugged her tight, spinning her about. Aela looked away politely, her cheeks colouring just a little.

"You are home from your grand adventure, my love?" she asked in her Imperial-accented tone, nuzzling against his neck and loving the feel of his powerful arms around her, protecting her from a world gone mad.

"For only a moment, to my regret," he said somewhat sadly, smiling down at her. "Jarl Ulfric has need of me in Windhelm."

Camilla sighed and allowed him to lower her to the ground. She looked up at her husband in despair. "Damn this war and these dragons for keeping you from me, Ragnar," she said glumly. "I would see you drive the Empire out forever if I thought it meant you could stay home with us."

"Papa!" squeaked a younger voice as Lucia came scampering out of the hall and raced over to greet him. "You're back! Did you bring me anything?"

Ragnar considered for a moment and strode over to his horse, rummaging around in a sack tied to the beast's flank. He returned and presented her with a sturdy hide helmet. She frowned at it in confusion and then looked up at him. "What... what do I do with it?"

"I suppose you could use it as a flower pot," he suggested. She seemed unconvinced for several moments and then turned and wandered off, determined to put the strange gift to some kind of good use. Why couldn't she have a normal surrogate father?

"Hey, pa." Alesan said as he walked up, trying to seem casual. Camilla smiled as she watched the young lad attempt to swagger, mimicking the gait of his powerfully muscular father.

Ragnar chuckled and gave the boy a wooden sword he had carved from ice pine wood he'd found outside Dawnstar. Alesan examined it and then beamed happily before rushing off to chase his step-sister with the weapon. Her squawks of protest could be heard from behind the great hall.

"I didn't know you had children, Harbinger." Aela commented, watching the kids disappear.

"They are not mine by birth," Ragnar replied as he led the two women toward Heljarchen Hall. "I adopted Alesan in Dawnstar and Lucia in Whiterun. They were both orphans."

"Noble, to be sure, but are they safe here?" the Companion asked, thinking about the dragon not far off.

"As safe as they can be in these times," he commented casually. "The dragon keeps most other predators away and the dragon avoids me. At some point I shall head to Shearpoint and slay the beast and then lead a hunting party to clear the other predators from the area."

Aela, who had fought and slain giants alongside her Shield-Brothers and now Draugr with Ragnar, decided to leave the matter alone. Clearly he was not concerned and that should be good enough cause for her to not worry either. As they entered the steading they were greeted by the melodic strains of a lute filling the dining hall.

"_Our hero, our hero_

_Claims a warrior's heart_

_I tell you, I tell you_

_The Dragonborn comes_

_With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art_

_Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes_

_It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foe'_

_Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes_

_For the darkness has passed_

_And the legend yet grows_

_You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come!"_

Camilla clapped as Oriella finished the verse and approached Ragnar. "My _thegn,_ it is good to finally meet you," she said in a lyrical voice. "I am Oriella, your new bard." She was willowy and attractive, with fair skin and tawny hair, cut in a bob common amongst the Breton women of High Rock's cities.

"Camilla, I see you've been decorating." Ragnar stated as he observed the bard. "You're from the College in Solitude."

"Is it that obvious?" Oriella laughed easily. "It is as you say, _thegn_, I am a graduate from the Bard's College. I understand you also spent some time there."

"Well, yes, but mostly on errands, fetching missing treasures," muttered Ragnar. "I spent little time studying."

"Yes, but if the rumours are true, then you have considerable skill with the lute and a powerful tenor," she purred, smiling. "Perhaps at some point you could demonstrate for us? I would love to hear how loudly you can sing."

"Let's not test the whole 'loud' theory thing." Aela said hastily, remembering Borlag's chamber in Korvanjund. "Harbinger, we should drop off our baggage and continue on, yes?"

"Yes, you are right," Ragnar lamented, wishing he could spend more time in his home. He knew he was needed elsewhere and perhaps Sky Haven Temple was also his home, but he missed being at Heljarchen with Camilla. "Forgive me, my love, but I am in haste. Jarl Ulfric expects me in Windhelm."

"I understand," Camilla replied, her voice soft with patience. "Just remember where your home is when your duty ends."

As Camilla went about her business organizing the steading, Ragnar now looked at Oriella. "See to it that the Bard's College knows you work for me and to watch out for my family."

Oriella nodded. "Of course. I have contacts within the Fighter's Guild in the Imperial City, would you like some muscle hired to help protect your home?"

"Not necessary, but consider this a retainer for keeping your word." Ragnar replied as he fished something out of his pocket and tossed it to the minstrel- her eyes widened as she glanced at the large, flawless diamond she now held in her palms.

"This... is too much, my _thegn."_

"Nonsense, I have plenty more just like it," he muttered as he trudged back toward the entranceway. Aela was already unloading the horses when Ragnar began to lift the sacks of loot and take them down to the basement beneath Heljarchen. Aela followed, a look of disbelief on her face as she took in the surroundings.

"You have a forge in your basement, Harbinger?" she asked incredulously.

"Aye, it is no mere forge, either. It is enchanted, I imagine it could forge armour and weapons equal to anything the Skyforge could make."

"You enchanted a forge?"

"Well, admittedly I had some help from my friends back in the College of Winterhold," Ragnar answered, opening several safes and chests. Aela was curious to note that some of the safes seemed to be made of a dull black metal. Could they really have been made of ebony?

"Harbinger, while old Eorlund suspects that you might be as least as gifted a smith as himself, am I to believe that you can work with ebony?"

"I've tinkered with it," Ragnar said. "If you're referring to the safes, they're made of Skyforge steel and I lined them with ebony for extra protection. This forge is enchanted and I can keep it hotter than normal using fire salts."

"Fire salts?" Aela exclaimed. "As in the remains of a slain flame atronach?"

"None other," he replied cheerfully as he stuffed ebony weapons one after the other into the large chests. "And if I am working with stahlrim, I can make the fires of this forge burn cold by using frost salts."

"Cold fire." Aela said flatly, her expression nonplussed. "Harbinger, I have seen many weird things in my life and in your presence, but what you are talking about sounds like utter nonsense to me."

"Just wait until you have a chat with the court mage of Riften if you think I sound insane," he muttered while closing the lids. "Now we'll just dump all the bags of various coin and jewels here in the corner and Camilla, Alesar and Lucia will divide it up later. And yes, they enjoy doing it, especially Camilla. Must be her Imperial merchant blood speaking. Let us finish up."

The two brought down several more sacks before the job was complete. When they had finished, Aela admitted she was thoroughly tired from their adventure, something she almost never confessed to.

"Spend as many day as you like here to recover and then head back to Jorrvaskr," Ragnar. "I've no doubt that Camilla and the children will be delighted with the company. And if you're feeling predatory, there's a troll fen not far away to the north. Fight well, Shield-Sister..."

With that, Ragnar mounted his horse and galloped off toward the east. Camilla waved after him, as did Lucia and Alesar. Aela and Oriella waited nearby, watching silently. Eventually Camilla turned to them and smiled warmly.

"Come inside, we will have dinner," she said, gesturing to the door. "We're having horker stew, Black-Briar mead, juniper berry pudding and Elsewyr fondue for dessert. You'll love to watch the effect the fondue has on little Alesan..."

* * *

Ragnar stood now before the Throne of Kings inside the great castle-fortress within Windhelm. Legend said that Ysgramor himself had built the imposing edifice as a symbol of his authority over Skyrim, a potent reminder to the elves who had persecuted his people of who the true masters were.

Ulfric Stormcloak say now somewhat lazily upon the great stone chair, flanked on one side by Galmar and on the other by his rather out-of-place advisor, Jorleif. Around the hall were dozens of members of the rebellion, including Ralof. The mood was festive, with most of the attendees displaying varying degrees of inebriation. Galmar was trying to convince Ulfric to wear the Jagged Crown and display it for his brave and loyal warriors.

Finally though, Ulfric held up a hand and the revelers quieted down, waiting to hear what he had to say. The jarl was silent for several pensive moments before speaking. His tone was grave.

"A crown does not make a king, nor does this feat of heroism win our war. Those of you who went to Korvnjund with General Galmar endured and fought horrors that no living man should ever have to consider. Those who died shall be revered, those who yet live shall be my champions in the campaigns to come. The battle to liberate our home will be an ongoing one, it will not see our victory in this season or even the next. We will fight to keep our foes off-balance and when the time is right, we shall strike them where it hurts most."

He gestured to one of his warriors. "Ralof of Riverwood, come forward."

Ralof strode forward and bent his knee before the man who would be High King of the Nords. His reverence for Ulfric was obvious.

"You have proven steadfast and loyal, fearless in battle and wise in command. "You are now one of Galmar's three chief lieutenants, responsible for the army that guards our border against Whiterun. Bring us honour and cover yourself in glory."

Cheers erupted around the hall and Ragnar nodded and smiled, happy for his friend. It was a well-earned promotion. Ulfric promoted several other men that day to various positions, clearly understanding that immediate reward was the easiest way to secure a vassal's loyalty.

"And of course, we must not forget you, my friend," declared the jarl as he beckoned to Ragnar. "Come forth, let your brothers and sisters in arms see you."

With more reluctance than he displayed, Ragnar stepped toward the throne and bowed his head. Men cheered and shouted his name, raising mugs, tankards and ale horns in the air as he passed them. Unlike most of the other Stormcloaks, he was not wearing his armour but clad in a simple short-sleeved tunic, breeches and boots. His only display of pageantry was a plain gold armband and the amulet he had always worn since he was a child, one of ancient Nord design and given to him by his father.

"In very little time you have proven both your honour and your worth to us," Ulfric said, assessing Ragnar steadily. "You are a peerless warrior and a decisive leader. You were the key to retrieving the Jagged Crown and you also have helped to keep my city safe from the murderer within its walls."

Several men muttered quietly at the mention of the murders, a series of brutal killings of women that remained unsolved until Ragnar's dogged tenacity and intuition prevailed. He never told anyone, but he had kept the accursed Necromancer's Amulet and stored it away, a grim reminder of the perils all men faced.

"In light of these deeds, I name you _thegn_ of Eastmarch and you are now permitted to purchase property within Windhelm. Protect my city and let all who dwell within know your name and deeds."

Loud cheering erupted again and Ragnar once again bowed humbly, mobbed by his fellow Stormcloaks.

"Lord Ulfric, is that wise?" Galmar asked quietly as he stood next to the jarl. "Thunderfist is already _thegn _of both Whiterun and the Pale. He could become too powerful."

"I need him tied to me, Galmar, if I am to have his allegiance to our cause." Ulfric replied. "He is a man of action but also of duty. He will not forsake the people of Eastmarch easily, nor his word-bond to our cause."

Galmar grunted and watched the festivities, his eyes always straying back to Ragnar.

* * *

Aela could not believe she had spent a whole week at Heljarchen. Against all odds and common sense, she had been enjoying herself. Camilla was a gracious host, Oriella the bard was wonderful to listen to, the children were eager to hear about her exploits as a Companion and Ragnar had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of excellent mead. They were sitting around the long table in the main hall, laughing and discussing how Camilla could possibly endure living with Ragnar.

"Sometimes I do not know," she giggled as she emptied her mug of mead. "When he first moved us here, the place was seemingly complete and very well put together. But even now, after all this time, I will find barrels, open them and there are apples or tomatoes inside for no reason whatsoever. I mean, who does that?"

Aela laughed heartily as she listened, relating to Camilla and Oriella about how Ragnar had this annoying tendency during quests to take his ever-present pickaxe to any ore veins they discovered and strip it to the point of inconvenience. He had even done so once inside a den of bandits they had been hired to clean out. It was only at Aela's very firm insistence that he agreed to wait until _after _the thieves had been dealt with before he was allowed to mine.

"And he sticks _everything_ in his mouth," she continued, pouring herself another flagon. "If those things go into the potions he keeps trying to make then I am never trying one again."

She had helped Camilla and the children sort through the coins and loot they had brought home, a process that took nearly three days. Aela had expressed no small amount of admiration at the sums involved but Camilla pointed out that there were entire chests of coin locked away in the basement. She had never asked Ragnar directly, but she was pretty sure that it amounted to at least a hundred thousand _Septims_.

"But what could even he do with it all?" Aela had exclaimed at the revelation. Camilla was silent for several moments, reflecting on how many times she had asked herself that.

"I do not know," she said finally. "But knowing Ragnar as I do, he has a plan for it. He is no fool, no matter how he chooses to present himself. I will have faith and we will see."

Aela had dropped the subject. For her part, she was heading back to Jorrvaskr with an impressive amount of coin and treasure, such as she and her mount could carry. She would be the talk of the Companions for some time to come.

* * *

"It sounds dangerous, my friend," old Tolfdir remarked as they sat in the Arch-Mage's quarters, drinking mead. "I can see why you might desire to accomplish this daunting task, but I am not sure I can put the college in this kind of risk."

"Since when does the college shy from danger?" Ragnar pointed out. "Besides, I am not asking for the entire student body, I merely wish to be accompanied by J'Zargo, Onmund and Brelyna. They are skilled in magic and they are fast friends to me."

"But still, this is exceedingly dangerous."

"We survived the crisis with the Eye of Magnus, did we not? All three have become formidable mages and it would be a shame to not let them earn reputations for themselves in this venture."

Tolfdir was silent for some time, ruminating about what Ragnar had told him. The young man had come to the College and asked to use the library within the Arcaneum, searching through some of the oldest and most rare books and scrolls that could be found.

"You are certain what you seek can be found in Blackreach?"

"That is my conclusion, and not merely because some half-crazed scholar has said so," Ragnar said. "I have been to that fabled Dwemer realm only once and only very briefly, but it does indeed exist and the answers I seek lie there. This may be the only way to defeat Alduin, Tolfdir. There is no safety behind these walls if he is not stopped."

Tolfdir was silent again, lost in thought. He could not deny that troubling times were upon them, not just the College, Skyrim or even Tamriel, but the whole of Nirn. If the dragons were triumphant, the world would burn. One of the dreaded beasts had actually attacked the college and it was only the combined might of the entire staff of the College and its most skilled students that had driven the thing off. Several pupils had died, incinerated by its deadly fire-breath.

Was there even really a choice here?

"Very well, young Ragnar," the old man said finally. "I will allow Onmund, Brelyna and J'Zargo to go with you. But I am expecting a full account of everything that happens. The knowledge you might encounter could be invaluable to the college. Bring back whatever you can."

Ragnar nodded his appreciation. It was a race for the fate of Tamriel and he needed all the help he could get. Maybe now they'd have a chance.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **A little more lengthly than the prologue, perhaps, but I've got plots to unfold and a lengthly game to keep up with. Hopefully it didn't jump around too much to hold your attention.

Doubtless some people are going to be questioning Ragnar's sense of humour, but I feel inclined to point out that there are several interactions within the game where the Dovakhin displays a rather smart-ass sort of levity. Witness his interactions with Wylandria, the court wizard of Riften if you do not believe me. Ragnar does indeed have some of my sense of humour about him and I am perfectly happy with this, since I do not find it jarring when meshed with the rest of his personality.

I will continue to develop a coherent explanation and rhythm for how Shouts work and can be explained for prose. In-game relevance is fine for when I am gaming but as a read story there needs to some investment in the how's and why's of Dragonspeak.

The story is, of course, about Ragnar, but I enjoy the supporting cast he gets to work with in-game, so I shall be expanding upon them as well. With any luck, even Lydia should come across as sympathetic, no matter how much she may deserve a good killin'.

In terms of those little quirks throughout the game, like the Dragonborn tasting everything in sight, randomly mining ore deposits in the middle of a crisis or injuring himself by tripping over a ribcage even though he can survive a fall off the side of High Hrothgar, well, these shall be indulged for their comic value. I was always amused by these traits and thought they bore some scrutiny.

That should do it for now, I'll get to work on the next chapter. Hope you're enjoying this little romp.

Keep your stick on the ice!

- Management


End file.
